Everlasting and Neverending
by sweettea1
Summary: Cassandra always feared the dark; but, even then, she had a lamp and a gun to quell the unknown. However, after she and her team of fellow detectives respond to a mass homicide at Beacon Mental Hospital, Cassandra quickly learns there is more to fear than just the darkness. Perhaps she should be scared of her own mind.
1. Chapter 1: Pinpoint

**Author's Note: ** In the simplest terms, this story spawned in my head and urged by brain to write it down. No _if's _or _but's_, either. Therefore, you are now reading the result of my nagging, spontaneous plot bunnies.

On that note, welcome to _Everlasting and Neverending_, my muse for _The Evil Within_. Truly, I never thought I would develop such an interest and love for the video game, considering my pitiful, lacking skills in horror games; however, the plot of the game and the characters involved intrigue me to no end. And, despite how terrifying, there is so much to be explored in the realm of Ruvik's mind, it seems; and I want to delve deeper.

Therefore, I hope you all enjoy what I have written so far and what is to come; and, I sincerely thank you for taking the time to read my work. Have fun...

**_Disclaimer: I, sweettea1, do not own any elements or characters from The Evil Within. I do, however, own any OCs or scenes not seen in the game, for they are my creations._**

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><p><strong>Chapter I:<strong>

**Pinpoint**

"_Find out what you're afraid of and go live there." –Chuck Palahniuk_

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><p>"Well, Kidman."<p>

A sigh escaped Julie Kidman's lips. "What is it this time, Manders?" she asked, swiveling away from her computer to face the owner of the voice—Cassandra Manders.

Aforementioned woman smiled broadly, slipping her hands into the front pockets of her jeans. "You, me, Joseph, and Sebastian—what do you say?"

Julie dawned a contemplative look (or, rather, a feigned appearance of the emotion), tilting her head mildly to the side and resting her left cheek against her knuckles. "Sounds like a crowded ride. Where are we going?"

"Crime scene downtown," Cassandra answered, a frown tugging the corners of her lips downward. Shifting, she leaned her hips against Julie's desk, her eyes flitting through the neatly stacked papers and personal trinkets covering the wooden surface. "Sebastian suggested that we could use the experience—you know, us rookies."

Julie huffed a laugh, adjusting her position and folding her arms across her chest. "He suggested?" she asked, a rare, teasing tone touching her voice.

Cassandra hummed, nodding distantly as she glanced toward the office of the detective in question—Sebastian Castellanos. The room was only three desks away from Julie's space, occupying a generous portion of the department. It was well lit, bathing every inch in a yellow tint that added a strange, worn appearance to the office. Through the glass panes on either side of the closed door, Cassandra could see the resident of the workspace, palms resting on the oaken desk and hazel eyes focusing on the pictures scattered between his hands. He wore his never-changing attire—which, surprisingly, remained classy and sharp despite the number of times he had donned the garb—and his black hair was slicked back, a few stray pieces dangling around his face. He had not moved from that stance for the past thirty minutes, except for exchanging glossy photographs for others or allowing his hand to stray toward his chin in deep thought. Cassandra had to wonder exactly _what_ he was poring over, and whether the evidence strewn across his desk was about this crime scene they were supposed to investigate.

Her musings were abruptly interrupted when Julie snapped her fingers, earning a startled jump and a bashful blush from Cassandra. Julie stared at her, her arched eyebrows the only sign that she was amused—or, possibly, irritated. Cassandra struggled to distinguish between the two expressions whenever she conversed with Julie. "You were saying?" Kidman urged.

Cassandra cleared her throat, pushing away from Julie's desk. Her initial embarrassment still burned her cheeks and ears. "Well, he may have _insisted_ rather strongly that we tag along—but I will point out that he did not sound too thrilled."

"Castellanos is never thrilled about anything," Julie said dryly. She stood, gripping the back of her chair and wheeling the seat under the desk. "Still, I suppose it would do us both some good to get out on the field. I'm tired of searching through the city's old case files."

"Is _that_ what you do in your spare time?" Cassandra pried, smirking playfully. Julie gave her a deadpan look.

"Yes, and I would suggest you do the same," she said, claiming her badge and hooking it onto her belt. Then, with one hand grabbing a notepad out of a drawer and the other selecting a pen out of the pencil holder, she fully faced Cassandra and shoved the objects into her hands. "You may learn a few things from those cases."

Cassandra accepted the notepad and pen, slipping the latter into her front pocket. "Maybe. But several of them are unsolved—mysteries for some determined detective to uncover and revive," she replied with a shrug. She flipped through the notepad, ensuring that she had plenty of blank pages to use.

"Have you ever considered that _you_ could be that determined detective?" Julie countered, garnering Cassandra's full attention. The latter rookie furrowed her brow.

"I—I guess not." She paused, hesitant. "Have you, Kidman?"

Julie's lips twisted into a frown. "I can always dream about being the best."

Cassandra nodded. "Then work for it. It's not impossible, especially if you have the potential."

Julie quirked an eyebrow. "Is that a compliment, Manders?"

Aforementioned woman chuckled. "If it is," she said, staring at Julie pointedly, "then don't expect too many of them."

Julie returned the stare equally. "Same."

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><p>Cassandra would not consider her cramped position between Julie Kidman and Joseph Oda in the back seat of the police cruiser a pleasant experience—especially when every turn or bump in the road sparked a collision among the three of them. Julie did not complain, simply staring out of the window in displeasure and mumbling an apology whenever her elbow accidentally rammed into Cassandra's bicep. Joseph, however, fidgeted often, pressing against the car door and peering at the contents of the manila folder clasped in Cassandra's fingers. He seemed to be trying to distract himself, proffering questions and pointing to the printed information on the papers as Cassandra analyzed the available database. She knew she would have much more fortune back at the department since she would have better technology and a greater amount of space; however, they still had twenty minutes of travel to overcome—and that was a rough estimate, for the cloudy sky had finally decided to release its torrents of rain, slowing their progress. Cassandra added another ten minutes to their trip.<p>

"Cassandra."

The rookie lifted her chin, meeting the hard, hazel gaze that irrefutably belonged to Sebastian.

Realizing that he had her attention, the veteran detective extended a hand toward her. "Let me see those photos again," he requested.

Cassandra nodded mutely, turning to the back of the folder and retrieving the stack of photographs. She spared a glance at the first picture, grimacing at the gruesome image of the dead body and the memories it sparked from her time at the crime scene. Hastily, she handed Sebastian the visual evidence, mumbling a quiet 'here you go.'

"Thanks," he said, distant as he instantly attached his attention to the same image Cassandra had been cringing at. A minute passed, and Cassandra watched from the corner of her eye as Sebastian studied every picture in the considerably thick stack. Afterwards, he turned his torso to face her again. "What do you make of this?"

He presented a close-up shot of the victim's arm, revealing a thick, blocky-style symbol drawn on the skin by a black marker. It strangely resembled a diamond pierced by a spear. Cassandra squinted and Joseph leaned forward to examine the emblem with her. Julie merely glanced, but not a single word left her lips.

Cassandra finally shrugged. "A target, perhaps? I remember a couple other victims bearing that same mark."

"A rivalry, then?" Joseph suggested, adjusting his glasses.

"That, or a sign that this is a serial killer—you know, his personal touch to distinguish his work."

Sebastian withdrew the photograph, gazing at it with a new sense of interest. He opened his mouth to proceed with his inquiries, but he never received the chance—the police cruiser's radio crackled to life before he could utter a sound.

"_All units, all units; 11-99, expedite cover code 3. Beacon Mental Hospital._"

Every pair of eyes fell on the radio; however, only Officer Connelly—the oddly silent driver who kept his eyes plastered on the wet road—provided a response to the emergency call.

"One-eighty-four, copy; code 3. ETA three minutes," he said, flipping on his sirens and spinning the wheel to turn right at the intersection.

"_Copy one-eighty-four._"

"Sorry detectives. I know you just comin' off a case, but I'm afraid we're gonna have to make a detour," Connelly apologized, glancing at Cassandra, Julie, and Joseph through the rear view mirror. Cassandra was amused to notice Connelly's purposeful avoidance of Sebastian's gaze. A wise decision, she supposed, considering the sullen mood the veteran detective had adopted as soon as the radio had interrupted his interrogation.

Cassandra shifted forward, the seatbelt protesting against the action and biting into her waist. She reached a hand between the two front seats. "You want me to take those back, Sebastian?" she asked, pointing at the photographs still clasped in his hands.

Sebastian stared at her for a brief second before returning the pictures. "I suppose so," he said. Cassandra quickly straightened, fully aware of the irritation in Sebastian's tone. He did not want to be bothered.

Joseph—as if detecting the tension—decided to spark a conversation; or, perhaps he was simply curious. "Sounds serious." He nodded toward the radio. "Is it a riot?"

Connelly shook his head. "Call went out just before I picked you up. Said it was 'multiple homicides.' Half a dozen units already on-scene."

Cassandra furrowed her brow. "Then what do they need us for? It seems as though the situation isn't quite under control yet," she noted, tucking away the photographs and gingerly setting the manila folder between her feet. "Half a dozen units is a considerable number."

The radio intervened again. "_One-thirty-one, please advise—_"

Connelly looked at her through the rear view mirror. "This isn't your typical one-man murder case, detective. Apparently, it's some bloody massacre that occurred at the hospital, and they haven't found the culprit responsible for the crime."

"You mean _culprits_. If it's as bad as you describe, then there must be more than one suspect," Julie interjected, finally tearing her eyes away from the water-speckled window and meeting the driver's gaze blandly.

"Maybe," Connelly admitted. "Or maybe it's the ghost of that doctor who went schizo and chopped up all those patients."

Joseph leaned forward. "That's not what happened. Some patients disappeared. Some kind of scandal?"

Cassandra stared incredulously at Joseph. "Are you serious?" she asked, eyebrows soaring upwards.

"Supposedly." Joseph shrugged, unsure.

"Still," Connelly mused, seemingly brushing away Joseph's comment, "gives ya the creeps, doesn't it?"

"_One-two-seven, one-two-four, please respond—_"

Suddenly, Sebastian turned around in his seat, speaking for the first time since the radio had come to life. "Joseph, you think there's a connection?"

"It's a possibility," the aforementioned detective speculated. He lifted a small, black book and waved it in the air. "I believe the records were sealed."

"_Anyone on-scene, respond—_"

Cassandra glared at the radio, the continuous interrupting beginning to probe her patience. Sebastian seemed to be just as tired with the requests and alerts as she was, for he decided to answer the woman on the other end.

"Dispatch this is Detective Castellanos in one-eight-four, what's the situation, over?"

"_One-eight-four be advised, some problem—at Beacon Memorial—radio._"

Cassandra had to strain her ears to understand the patchy words that filtered through the speakers; and, even when she recognized the few audible phrases, they provided her with no definite knowledge. There was a problem at the Beacon Memorial? Had they found the suspect—or _suspects_, as Julie had insisted—and were struggling to bring him—_them_—into custody? Or were they experiencing problems with their radio, since that was the final word that she managed to decipher?

Sebastian spoke again: "Is there any—"

A screech funneled through the speakers, earning multiple curse words from both Sebastian and Connelly, and grimaces from Joseph and Cassandra. The latter detective covered her ears, squeezing her eyes shut as the piercing noise seeped through her fingers and pounded against her eardrums.

"Can you shut that thing off?" Cassandra shouted over the din, cracking one eye open to stare at the screaming radio.

Connelly's only response was 'Jesus!' as he yanked the police cruiser back between the lines, jerking his passengers as well. And, strangely—_thankfully_—the radio silenced itself as soon as Connelly returned to his respective lane.

"Wish's granted," the officer breathed, rubbing his right ear tenderly.

Cassandra carefully uncovered her ears, releasing a sigh of relief. She glanced at Joseph, watching as he shook his head and took off his glasses. "Are you all right?" she asked, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"Yeah," he said, mimicking Connelly's actions. "You?"

"Better than I thought." She turned to Julie. "Kidman?"

"Perfectly," she responded evenly, unfazed by the display. Cassandra was tempted to question her fellow rookie whether she heard the screech or not, but she held her tongue. For Julie's sake, Cassandra was not going to draw too much attention to her. Not now.

Therefore, she switched her gaze between Sebastian and Connelly, mouth opening to ask them the same question; however, Sebastian raised a hand, nodding his head to signify that they were equally well—at least, as well as one could be after such an event.

Sebastian peered through the rear view mirror. "Junior Detective Kidman, any thoughts?" he asked the composed woman. Cassandra darted her eyes toward Julie instinctively.

"Nothing yet," she replied evenly, voice inflectionless. She watched the outside world blur past them. "I'm sure we'll know everything once we get there."

"Right," Sebastian mumbled. He addressed Cassandra. "What about you, Manders?"

Cassandra blinked, pursing her lips. "To be honest, my head is spinning—and it's not the radio's fault, either. I just don't know which assumption to start with."

"That's what detectives are for, Cassandra: we put the pieces together and choose the right answer."

Sebastian did not press for an answer, letting the subject slide and allowing the rest of the ride to continue in silence.

Cassandra reclined in her seat, staring thoughtfully at the folder resting on the floor at her feet. A few pages and photographs were peeking out of the manila cardstock and poking into her booted foot, as if prodding her to search through the details again for a promising secret. She nearly accepted the temptation, but another sharp turn by Connelly helped her to refrain. Therefore, she focused on the soaked road before them, illuminated by the headlights of the police cruiser. They supposedly had multiple homicides—she needed to be prepared for anything, no matter how grisly or baffling.

Roughly two minutes passed before the police cruiser came to a progressive halt in front of an impressive iron gate. Beyond the black rods and crystalline droplets of rain, Cassandra could see six or seven police cars parked randomly within the courtyard; however, no officers could be seen near the black and white vehicles. Undoubtedly they were within the looming antique building, investigating the crime and searching for their killer. A shiver wove down her spine as she studied the hauntingly intricate design of the old mansion, and she rubbed her upper arms to soothe the goose bumps that prickled her skin. For what reason would a man want to conduct a mass murder within the Beacon Mental Hospital? What goal would be accomplished from such violence? Was it an act of revenge? Anger? Desperation?

"Come one, Manders. You can't solve the case in the car," Julie remarked, leaning down to stare at her fellow rookie.

"Of course," Cassandra said, returning to the present. She slid across the seats and exited the police cruiser, standing next to Julie in the light drizzle.

Sebastian and Joseph were already sauntering toward the iron gates, sweeping their gazes across the disorderly scene. Julie and Cassandra joined them some moments later, each of the detectives eyeing a particular point of interest.

Joseph's voice sliced through the rhythmic beat of the rain, asking Sebastian, "What do you make of it?"

The veteran detective did not answer Joseph, opting to glance over his shoulder and give Connelly an order. "Connelly, contact Dispatch and let them know what's happening." He switched his attention to the others. "Joseph, Kidman, Cassandra—you're with me. We're going to have a look around."

Julie released a barely audible sigh. "Right…" She trudged forward, slipping through the narrow opening between the two doors of the gate.

"I'm with you," Cassandra acknowledged, staring after Julie suspiciously. She followed closely behind Sebastian and Joseph, shoulders tense and senses alert as she scanned the area. As she had noted earlier, the courtyard was abandoned, hinting at no signs of life other than swaying vegetation. The police cruisers were dead, soaked in rainwater; and the towering hospital held no light in its windows.

They rounded around the center of the courtyard, and Cassandra seized the opportunity to admire the stony monument standing proudly among a nest of bushes. It resembled a lighthouse, with a circle centering on the peak of the structure and framing the two shafts of light that emitted from the top. Cassandra raised her eyebrows, silently admiring the weathered piece of architecture; however, her appreciation dwindled quickly and her attention returned to the antique building when she caught Sebastian and Joseph gliding up the steps.

Sebastian reached the heavy mahogany doors first, inspecting them briefly before placing both of his palms on the wet wood and pushing the left side inward. The hinges groaned, and Sebastian simultaneously grunted—not in effort, but in revulsion. Cassandra and Joseph exchanged a confused glance; however, they soon realized the reason behind Sebastian's reaction, the strong, coppery scent of blood striking their noses. Cassandra scrunched her features, pressing the back of her hand against her nostrils in an attempt to block the overwhelming scent mingling with the humid air.

Joseph exhaled sharply, joining Sebastian at the door. "Smells like blood," he noted, sharing a wary glance with the veteran detective.

Sebastian nodded, already aware. "All right, stay sharp."

Joseph drew his handgun in response, pushing open the opposite door and proceeding into the hospital. Cassandra strode forward, fingers curled around the handle of her own gun, ready to assist Joseph in reconnaissance. However, Sebastian had other plans, gripping her shoulder and pulling her behind the threshold.

Cassandra only caught a glimpse of the bloodbath beyond before she turned sharply toward Sebastian. "You need our help," she stated, not daring to offer a question. Sebastian was usually careful to consider his options if given the opportunity.

"Yes, but you would do me more good if you stayed with Julie—_outside_," he said, retracting his hand. His hazel eyes flitted over to Julie, who was approaching their position with gun in hand. "We're going to check it out. You two don't let anyone else through this door."

Julie—much to Cassandra's shock—protested. "We can be an extra set of eyes."

And, of course, Sebastian was unmoving in his decision. "We don't know what's happening here. You're our backup," he insisted, eyeing them both. He was not in the mood for arguments.

Cassandra sighed, rocking back on her heels. "Fine," she muttered, lowering her gun. Sebastian nodded, trailing after Joseph. Cassandra saw one final preview of the pools of blood (along with a whiff of the crimson substance) before the doors creaked closed. She spun around, glaring at the empty police cruisers and the puddles of water soaking the earth and gravel. She felt Julie's eyes boring holes into the side of her head, but she did not bother to address her fellow rookie, merely listening for any signs of a struggle behind the mahogany doors.

Lightening sliced through the clouds, eerily illuminating the courtyard and adding a faint glow to the lighthouse monument. Cassandra stared at the piece of architecture for several long seconds, debating. Then, whipping her head in Julie's direction, she commented, "Officer Connelly sure is taking his sweet time."

Julie arched an eyebrow. "He's calling backup, Manders; give him some time."

Cassandra stared at her. "There was a mass murder in that hospital—don't you find that strange? Or even concerning?" she stressed, wiping away a raindrop that had plopped solidly onto her forehead. "We have empty police cruisers—an empty _courtyard_, actually; multiple bodies; two of our best detectives going in alone; and nothing but _silence_ from this place. We don't even have a suspect."

Julie's jaw visibly tensed, and she deliberately avoided Cassandra's gaze as she responded sharply, "If there are no officers, then they are tracking down their missing suspect. If Sebastian and Joseph are our best detectives, then they can handle whatever situation that may impede them." She finally decided to turn toward Cassandra, a deep frown creasing her features. "If you're so concerned, then go find Connelly. I'll stand by and watch the door myself."

A rumble of thunder seemed to enhance Julie's words, sending a second shiver through Cassandra's bones. She gave a single, stiff nod. "I won't be gone long. We're in this together, though—so if _anything_ changes, then alert me."

Julie returned the gesture, nodding; however, she never spoke another word, letting her gaze drift elsewhere. Cassandra holstered her gun, trotting down the slick steps and trudging through the rain. The downpour had increased, the droplets becoming larger and falling more rapidly. Cassandra wished she had collected her own coat, similar to Sebastian; the veteran detective was always prepared—not even the weather surprised him.

Connelly's cruiser's lights still flashed, and Cassandra could distinctly hear static emitting from the radio. Furrowing her brow, she slipped through the gates, cringing when the cold, iron bars brushed her palms.

"Officer Connelly?" she called, raising her voice above the thrum of the rainfall. No reply came from the vehicle. "Connelly? This is Detective Manders; are you all right?"

Her steps slowed, and she analyzed the police cruiser with more scrutiny. The driver's side door was still swung wide open, and Cassandra could see a pair of feet sticking out beneath the door—but they were not standing upright, rather leaning backwards in a lax position. Cassandra instantly ripped her handgun out of her holster, holding the weapon up defensively and blinking the water out of her vision.

She circled around, keeping her gun trained on the police cruiser. She eventually passed the open car door; however, her heart skipped a beat when she saw the limp form of Officer Connelly spread awkwardly across the seats, blood streaming from his right eye and pooling on the floorboards.

"O—oh my God," she stuttered. She summoned what little courage she retained—undoubtedly, that courage was merely adrenaline—and surged forward, reaching across Connelly's body and placing two fingers against his neck. No steady pulse pressed against her own skin.

She withdrew from the body, mouth agape as she tried to form words. "_Kidman!_ Kidman, officer—"

The words died in her throat as she spun around and met the milky-white gaze of a cloaked man. Three slow seconds passed as Cassandra stared at the man before her, studying his horrifically scarred face and hard gaze; and, in that seemingly long lapse of time, Cassandra felt as though the man had sorted through her entire life—raked his eyes over every thought her brain had ever produced.

Then, she reacted.

She lifted her gun and fired, the bullets burning through the barrel and colliding with the cloaked man; however, not a single shot harmed him. Cassandra's eyes bulged as she watched every bullet sink into his form and disappear, leaving no trace that he had ever been harmed—save for the old burns racing across his face and partly exposed torso.

Her trigger-finger stilled and her arms wobbled. The cloaked man never flinched, only observing her with a twinkle of curiosity shining in his white irises. Then, with the flick of a hand, her gun was ripped away from her hands and sent scattering across the street.

Cassandra gasped, her fingers stinging from the force and her brain numb from the speed of the action. She was disarmed, and this man never had to lay a finger on her. Slowly—_fearfully_—she faced her attacker.

"What are you?" she breathed.

He smirked. Then, drawing his right arm back, he swung his fist down at her face. Cassandra caught a brief, wicked glint from his hand before pain exploded through her left eye.

The world become dark; the rain stopped falling; and her heart stopped pounding.


	2. Chapter 2: Mad, Madder, Maddest

**Author's Note: **Hello, dear readers, and welcome back to _Everlasting and Neverending_. So since I have posted the first Chapter, I have been profoundly surprised by the response I received from all of you! Seriously, it is quite amazing, and I want to thank everyone for the encouragement. You make an author proud :).

Also, this Chapter is much longer than the last. I originally planned to cut Chapter II into two _separate_ pieces, considering the length; however, I felt as though the flow was interrupted too abruptly that way, and I decided to leave it be. Besides, who doesn't like longer Chapters? My point exactly.

Hope you enjoy!

_**Disclaimer: I do not own The Evil Within in any form of shape. **_**_My OCs and any scenes not seen in the game are my sole creations and property._**

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><p><strong>Chapter II:<strong>

**Mad, Madder, Maddest**

"_There is no passion so contagious as that of fear." –Michel de Montaigne_

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><p>Her heart began to beat, and her lungs pushed her chest up and down—those two factors were the only motivations Cassandra had for her to finally open her eyes. Her eyelids fluttered open, sticky and crusted around the edges; however, she barely paid a moment's notice to the uncomfortable sensation once she registered the ghostly face inches away from her own head. She gasped, inhaling a strong scent of rotting flesh mixed with traces of old blood—she smelled <em>death<em>, thick and suffocating as it blanketed the air.

The pale, terrified face lying next to her was unfamiliar—even ignoring the specks of blood and blotches of bruises littering his skin—but he wore the recognizable uniform of a Krimson City police officer. Was he one of the men who responded to the call at Beacon Mental Hospital? Or was she simply delusional, imagining the outfit in the impenetrable darkness?

Cassandra did not allow herself time to debate the identity of the man or if he truly was an officer from Krimson City, instead opting to roll onto her back to avoid the glazed gaze the man held. She swallowed, attempting to satisfy the utterly dry state of her throat; however, all she tasted was blood, the revolting substance seemingly coating her teeth and tongue.

Exhaling heavily, she began to rummage through her fragmented memories in hopes of recovering some—_any_—information upon how she got there. Her brain was sluggish to respond, but she finally recalled a horrific image of a cloaked, burned man piercing her left eye. She remembered his indifferent white irises and the smirk that graced his chapped lips before he sent her into oblivion. Who was he? What had he done to her? Was he responsible for Connelly's death? Was _she_ dead? Were the others dead?

She cupped her right hand over her mouth, sucking in a shaky breath. She did not know if any of those theories were true—not with certainty, at least. She was breathing, thinking, pumping blood—how could she not be alive? And Sebastian, Joseph, and Julie? They had each other's backs; they would protect each other from this cloaked menace. They were strong, and they were smart. She knew this without a doubt. Therefore, she needed to focus on herself at the moment; and surrendering and lying motionless next to the officer's corpse would bring her no benefit. She must uncover her location and asses her situation to the best of her ability. She needed to be diligent. She was detective, was she not?

Placing her hands on either side of her, Cassandra pushed her torso upward into a sitting position. The metal—she was confident the cool, smooth plane beneath her was metal—was slick and wet, and she cringed at the thought of what the liquid under her fingertips was (although, the distinct, coppery odor entering her lungs provided easy identification). Her knees were weak as she stood, wavering as she applied her weight to the joints; and her spine popped with every inch she straightened her body, eliciting a grunt of pain from her lips once she reached her full height. How long had she been lying there, unconscious? Her brain calculated minutes; her body translated hours.

She shook her head. Another consideration for another time.

Blinking her eyes, Cassandra peered into the opaque darkness that engulfed her. She could vaguely distinguish multiple, motionless forms sprawled across the floor near her position, spread apart equally as if they had been purposely laid down and left to rot together in this forsaken room—as if they were a _collection_ to be admired.

A shudder wracked her body. Cassandra hoped her theory was wrong.

Gingerly, Cassandra stepped over the dead officer, blindly navigating the rayless room as she searched for a hint—a hint other than the massacre at her feet. Her boots stubbornly stuck to the metal, and her calves periodically brushed the lifeless bodies whenever she traversed over them—and every time, she waited for one of the beings to utter a sound or grasp at her legs and drag her back down to the cold floor. However, she managed to reach the perimeter of the room without dilemma, her palms finally meeting a barrier—_a_ _wall_. Brow creasing, she felt along the wall, noting the frictionless surface and the periodical grooves her fingernails slipped into—strangely, the wall felt similar to the floor. Was the entire chamber made of metal? A solid cage? But where in Krimson City could a metallic room this size, accommodating dozens of corpses, be found? Could she possibly be trapped somewhere inside Beacon Mental Hospital?

The ludicrous assumption (was she accusing the hospital of _murder_?) lingered in her mind for only a few seconds, slowly fading away as she focused on her next course rather than her baffling location. She extended her right hand, lightly trailing her fingertips across the metal and ensuring a clear passage for her upper body; her feet, however, faltered often, slipping in unknown fluids and catching the fabric that clung to the humanoid forms beneath her. Deep in her subconscious, she knew she must travel more carefully and pay heed to the people she was stupidly tripping over; but the forefront of her mind warned her of the dangers that could be lurking in the shadows and swerving through the dead. The haunting thought kindled a desperate urge to escape and find solace elsewhere—to leave the suffocating smells and utter blackness that composed her makeshift prison.

She was blind to her surroundings, and she was _afraid_.

Suddenly, her right foot met a thick, bulging hurdle, and she fell. She hissed as her elbow collided sharply with a solid block; and, in response, she pulled her injured arm close to her chest and cupped her throbbing joint.

Then, she paused, breath catching in her throat. "What?" she muttered aloud, turning her eyes upward. Hazily, she could detect uneven ridges progressively rising from the ground, leading toward the wall before disappearing. Numbly, she hooked her left hand around one of the closest ridges, following its edge and patting its flat top.

_Stairs._

Cassandra's hope sparked, and she scrambled to the beginning of the staircase, accidentally stumbling over a couple more bodies. Her boots thumped noisily against the steps, and her knees and palms were prodded painfully whenever they landed upon a corner. For how long she climbed, Cassandra did not bother to keep track; she only focused on the path before her, searching for some end to her ascending journey—an end that came quickly. The top step slipped beneath a (unsurprisingly) metallic door that had been lazily left ajar.

Cautiously, Cassandra crept forward, peering through the narrow opening and eagerly scouting the area. Beyond the door, a wide, dim corridor stretched several yards forward into the unknown. Broken lights hung hazardously from the ceiling while its exposed wires sparked at random intervals—and, in those brief moments of limited illumination, Cassandra could distinguish a few characteristics of the desolate hallway. The walls were bare concrete, inflicted with thin, web-like cracks; handprints; and dried splatter near the base boards. The floors were worse, the once shattered tiles streaked and stained with unimaginable gore leading toward the room she was occupying. A single, tall cabinet sat midway down the corridor, its doors swinging loosely on their hinges and its shelves presumably empty—as if someone had recklessly stolen its contents.

Cassandra leaned away from the door, puffing her cheeks and exhaling slowly. Where _was_ she?

A minute passed—a long, torturous minute—before Cassandra finally stood, pried the door open, and exited her prison. The air was cold in the corridor, prickling Cassandra's skin and freezing her lungs whenever she sucked in a breath. She was highly alert, skimming the desolate hallway and closely examining any irregular shadows. Nothing moved; nothing shifted. All was disturbingly peaceful.

Cassandra's fingers left the door handle, instinctively hovering over her holster—wait. Cassandra's eyes darted downward. Her handgun was not snugly hugging her hip—her holster was empty.

She cursed fiercely, rubbing her forehead in silent frustration. Though the memory was vague, she could recall the cloaked man miraculously tearing her weapon out of her grasp with a wave of his hand—seconds before he had sent her into unconsciousness and deposited her here. If she had merely refrained from dispatching her precious bullets—had she kept her gun lowered—then perhaps she would still have her firearm. But those were small chances; for, what kidnapper would voluntarily provide his victim with a possibility of escape? Therefore, whichever method she chose would have formed the same dilemma. She would still be lost in this gruesome facility, and she would still risk the same vulnerability. It was the inevitable.

Sighing, Cassandra finally urged her feet to shuffle onward down the broad corridor. She purposely deviated away from the center of the hall where the blood was thickest, following the left wall closely and allowing her sticky fingertips to glide along the harsh concrete. Her steps echoed softly, the heel of her boots crunching the broken tiles that interrupted her pathway. She paused twice along her trek, her head swiveling from left to right as she observed the area and searched keenly for any notification that she was being followed or observed. A shiver shot down her spine at the notion, and she found herself quickening her pace down the corridor, heart beating uncontrollably and adrenaline burning in her veins. Truly, if her knees had not felt as though they would buckle underneath her weight, she would have jogged the rest of the way and left the metallic room and its desolate corridor in her wake.

Fortunately, she reached the end of the main hallway rather quickly after the thought had flitted across her mind. Two narrower paths turned sharply to the left and right, respectively—the left leading to a revolving door and the right ending abruptly at a set of dull, yellow doors. Cassandra's hope grew when she saw, through the frosted glass of the double doors, a faint, orange-tinted light; however, her eagerness plummeted when she noticed the thick pool of blood settled at the base of the entrance, the red substance glowing hauntingly in the weak illumination.

Cassandra's breathing became shallow as she examined the crimson lake and followed the river that broke away from it, flowing down the corridor as far as she could see. Those dead bodies—they originated from that room. Those people were _slaughtered_ in there and disposed into the metallic room. But why had she not suffered the same fate? Had she been disregarded? Had she been supposed dead rather than unconscious? Granted, she was no less thankful, but she still held her suspicions. She did not want her efforts of escape to conclude in a cruel ploy. She had progressed this far; she was determined to outwit her kidnapper.

The left hallway became her next route, and she forced herself to slow her pace and muffle her resounding footsteps. The patience required was agonizing; however, she felt victorious when reached the revolving doors without the slightest disturbance or surprise.

Releasing a steady breath, Cassandra pressed her palms against the dirty glass and pushed forward. Her world brightened considerably when she completed the rotation and entered the next room, for the proceeding chamber was blessed with proper, functioning electricity. Cassandra closed her eyes momentarily, silently rejoicing in the fluorescent glow descending from the ceiling; however, her elation rapidly diminished when she finally opened her eyes and glanced down at her body. Her attire was ragged and filthy, blotched with patches of gore and scuffed around her knees and elbows—actually, the fabric had completely torn on her right elbow, revealing her own lifeblood oozing from a thin cut across the rough skin.

Cassandra's stomach churned at the sight, and she snapped her head up to avoid her own ghastly state. Unfortunately, the action did not erase the memory from her brain, nor did it eliminate the disgusting sensation that crawled under her skin and seeped into her bones. She was carrying death on her very person—she felt, inside and out, uncleanly.

Her knees wobbled again, and she extended a hand to support her frame against the wall. Her eyes darted around the room, absorbing the details and inspecting for any possible hints upon where she was. However, as she scanned the generous space, she was shocked to realize that she was standing within lobby—or, rather, a waiting area. Plush chairs lined the opposite side of the room, interrupted occasionally by empty side tables. Four huge, boarded windows covered the wall behind the aforementioned chairs, restricting access to the outside world; and, separating the windows into two pairs, was a fanciful painting of angels strumming golden harps. A hauntingly grandeur display, but hardly helpful or comforting.

Casting her gaze to the left, Cassandra analyzed the rectangular countertop entrapping a small workspace. Her curiosity ignited, and she stumbled over to the cubicle, her palms collecting dust as she ran her hands across the countertop's surface. She leaned forward and studied the desks stationed within the tight space, eyes analyzing the few items decorating their wooden tops. Nothing garnered her attention—well, not until she found the telephone shoved in the corner.

"Thank you, God," she murmured, following the bordering countertops until she reached the entrance to the workspace. She approached the telephone and pulled it out of its corner, fingers poised over the keys and receiver pressed firmly against her ear. She was prepared to dial the first number that surfaced in her mind (even in her predicament, it was strange for her to punch in the familiar nine-one-one call); however, she had barely lifted her index finger from the _one_ key when the receiver filled with static, gradually building to a piercing shriek.

Cassandra managed to listen to the screech for a total of two seconds before she flung the receiver away. She flinched when the receiver collided with the edge of the desk before it tumbled toward the floor. Of course, it never met the tile, for its cord kept it aloft, bouncing up and down as it continued to emit its awful noise. Cassandra pressed the heels of her palms against her ears, desperately trying to shield her eardrums from the core-wracking sound; however, similar to her experience in Connelly's police cruiser, the shriek tore through her defenses and sunk into her brain like a hungry, ravenous animal.

She should have grabbed the receiver and ended the call—ended the _madness_. But her body failed to respond to her desires, folding in upon itself in an attempt to form a barrier between her and the screech. Her head throbbed, her vision blurred, her skin tingled, her throat tightened, her muscles twitched, her heart pounded, her bones rattled—

Then it stopped.

Cassandra panted, limbs shaking violently as she slowly unraveled herself. The pain that had controlled frame? It disappeared, seeping away with every exhale she released. She blinked rapidly, staring at the empty space where the receiver once dangled; then, her gaze drifted to the pair of legs adjacent to the former position of the receiver. Her eyes continued upward, forehead creasing in worry as she noted the stained (_bloodstained_) laboratory coat and the syringe clasped in a gloved hand. She tilted her head back further, her breath quickening as she stared at the face looming down at her—a surgical mask and an odd pair of goggles covering the majority of the newcomer's features.

Cassandra swallowed thickly, scooting backwards as she struggled to stand. Her lips formed silent words, but her voice failed to send the message.

Therefore, as if detecting her current inability, the man—was he a doctor?—sighed distastefully. "Speechless? Well, so am I. I thought you were _dead_."

One word—one parting word, and Cassandra turned around onto her hands and knees, crawling away as her feet continued to search for purchase on the broken tile. Her right foot eventually found stabilization, the toe of her boot catching a tile that had been chipped away. However, before her left foot could follow suit, she felt a sharp prick against the side of her neck. She gasped, whipping back around sharply and smacking the offending appendage and needle away from her skin—away from _her_.

The doctor stumbled, grunting, before muttering, "Please, let me help you."

"I don't _need_ your help," she gritted out, ramming her heel into the doctor's knee. In a malicious, victorious sense, she was pleased to hear the pain cry he gave as he slid down the wall, one hand cradling his injured joint while his other hand attempted to snatch her again. She never gave him the opportunity, pushing herself to a standing position and stumbling out of the cubicle and around the countertops. Her agonizing headache had dispersed; however, it was merely replaced with a lightheadedness that tilted her vision and exaggerated her movements.

She spat a curse, reaching lazily toward the revolving doors. "You drugged me," she stated, coating every word in venomous hate.

From the corner of her eye, she saw the doctor rise, his white coat blinding in the fluorescent lighting. "You were in pain. I wanted to ease your worries." He paused. Then, as if suddenly realizing that she was departing, he beckoned, "No, no! Do not leave! I must—"

Cassandra nearly fell as she pushed through the revolving doors, entering the foreboding corridor once again. She was determined to escape the doctor's presence—to escape whatever fate he planned for her. She may be fleeing an ally, but the blood that sprinkled the doctor's attire promised her nothing but torture and a bleak death. She refused to take a risk, too afraid of the consequences that would punish her afterwards. She would rather run—run until she found an exit, or passed out from the foreign dosage she was administered.

The main corridor was fruitless, for only one door existed down the entire expanse; therefore, she had only one option left. The right hallway—the path to the bloodbath. She could only hope there was some alternate passage within that room. Besides, how else could one enter or exit this facility without a way to the outside world? How could one survive without access to resources?

This time, she _prayed_ her theory was right.

An outraged shout rang down the hallway. "No, no, no! Stop!" Heavy footsteps accompanied the voice, and Cassandra urged herself to run faster.

She slammed her shoulder against one of the doors, sending it wide open and welcoming whatever gruesome sight that lay beyond. Her vision was still muddy; therefore, she could not see the grisly details that composed the room. The putrid smell, however, delivered a blow to her senses, burning her nose and coating her throat with foul discoveries. Her faltering sprint slowed drastically—or rather, suddenly, for her stomach connected painfully with a metal table.

She groaned, forearms resting on the wet—_wet!_—metal. Her head spun, attempting to retain its grip on reality as she clumsily navigated around the obstacle. She ignored the warm droplets racing down her arms, focusing solely upon finding a door or an archway to progress through. She wildly scanned the room, turning on her heel while trying to forcibly blink the bleariness out of her eyes. Her inner fire was dwindling as she searched, the pressure, consequently, increasing as she heard the doctor's footsteps approach the double doors.

Just as the creak of the hinges reached her ears, Cassandra's eyes caught the dull glow of a brass doorknob, the wood it was attached to hidden from sight by the towering medicine cabinet that sat adjacent to it. She gasped before floundering toward the seemingly secret door, snatching the doorknob and twisting it open.

"You must not go down there! Please!" The doctor—strangely—sounded genuine, as if he truly cared about her safety. Perhaps he did, but Cassandra was too fearful—too _muddled_ to consider staying. She shoved the door open, sparing a glance at the descending stairs before hastening down the steps. More pleas echoed from above, but Cassandra did not care. She felt an onrush of relief—of _freedom_.

But, something changed. Her breathing was labored, and the darkness that engulfed her—oh, how different the staircase was from the waiting room!—seemed to squeeze every essence of life from her body. She became sluggish, and her boots dragged dangerously across the steps.

Then, suddenly, her right foot met nothing but air, and she fell forward. She half-expected to tumble down the rest of the staircase, but her body never met a solid force. She simply descended, cutting through the blackness with disturbing speed.

She was tempted—no, _wanted_ to scream; however, she did not retain the breath in her lungs to do so. She sunk silently.

* * *

><p><em>Wake up.<em>

Her mind was foggy, but the voice was clear and resonating.

_Wake up_.

A sliver of light slipped through the seams, and she shifted away from the harsh glare. She could not possibly open her eyes to _that_.

_Manders._

Manders? Who called her by her surname? A majority of the officers back at the station—right. Now she was thinking idiotically.

_Manders, wake up._

_ Wake up._

_ Wake up._

"Wake up!"

Cassandra gasped, bolting upright and holding her hands up defensively. A surprised Connelly jolted backwards, gesturing for her to calm down before gingerly placing a hand on her shoulder.

"Good, I thought I was goin' to have to drag ya to the ambulance." He stood, extending a hand toward the shaken woman. "Come on, we can't wait around. We have to move."

Cassandra inhaled deeply, firmly clasping Connelly's hand and allowing him to haul her to her feet. She blinked twice, a stray hand rubbing her neck before wandering toward her left eye. She felt no injuries on her skin. Then she glanced down at her body, only to find her clothes covered in dust and small debris—no blood whatsoever on the cloth. Had she been dreaming this entire time?

"Hey, didn't you hear me? We have to _go_," Connelly stressed, the ground rumbling violently as if to add promise to his words.

Cassandra lifted her chin, taken aback. Her jaw was slack as she dumbly turned toward Krimson City—except, there was no city any more. Only collapsing buildings, buckling roads, and clouds of smoke. Krimson City was falling to pieces, fragmenting and sinking into the ground, as if the Earth wished to swallow the city out of existence.

A hand grasped her elbow and roughly yanked her away from the devastation, directing her toward an ambulance. Cassandra caught a glimpse of Julie Kidman's inflectionless features before the opposing woman disappeared into the back of the emergency vehicle, shutting the doors solidly behind her. The action forced Cassandra into action (not the tumult of foul language that ripped through Connelly's throat) and she strode toward the aforementioned ambulance. She vaguely realized that the drugs the doctor had given her were gone, its affects having died long ago—or, at least, that was what she was led to believe. After the spectacle her _imagination_ had concocted, Cassandra was wary upon what was real and what was an illusion.

Connelly proceeded her, opening the passenger door, climbing inside, and shifting over to the driver's seat. Cassandra followed him moments afterward, tugging the door closed behind her. Still mildly baffled, she swiveled in her seat to stare into the back of the ambulance. Julie was there, of course, sitting closest to the window that allowed easy view to the rear; however, two other passengers accompanied Kidman—people that Cassandra had never seen before in her life. A balding man with a doctor's garb (she shuddered at the reminder) sat next to a white-haired, young man who seemed to be muttering phrases to himself. The doctor appeared to be fond of the white-haired man, trying to soothe his panicking partner.

Cassandra wanted to ask Connelly who the additional passengers were; however, more pressing issues plagued her mind. She turned sharply toward the officer. "Where are Sebastian and Joseph?"

"They—" He stopped, something catching his eye as he glanced back toward the hospital. He cursed, putting the ambulance in reverse. "Hold on."

"What are you—"

Cassandra never received the opportunity to complete her sentence before the ambulance jerked backwards. Cassandra dug her heels into the floorboards and gripped the passenger seat, the momentum of the reversing ambulance attempting to smash her against the dashboard. Her eyes darted to the side mirror, watching as the bumper of the ambulance turned a corner and neared a gaping hole. Her breath caught in her throat when the emergency vehicle came to a jarring halt, and her muscles tightened painfully as she waited for the inevitable sensation of plummeting into the chasm's unknown depths.

Instead, she saw Connelly fumble with the radio, flipping a switch and shouting into the microphone: "Detective!"

She snapped her head in the direction of Beacon Mental Hospital, lips parting in a surprised gasp when she saw the familiar face of Sebastian Castellanos. He _was_ alive. But where was Joseph?

Connelly interrupted her racing thoughts. "Get in! _Get in!_" he yelled desperately.

Another quake shook the ground, and the boom of shattered glass echoed from above. Cassandra peered upwards, observing helplessly as the windows of the hospital exploded in a flurry of glistening shards—shards that fell to earth, their sharp edges pointing toward Sebastian.

"_Sebastian!_"

The veteran detective fled—or, rather, he tried, but his right leg dragged across the pavement, slowing his progress considerably. Cassandra, panicked, struggled to open the door to let Sebastian inside, her hands shaking and her lungs drawing in short breaths. Her fingers barely wrapped around the handle when, suddenly, the back of the ambulance began to tip precariously into the chasm. Connelly muttered unintelligible words under his breath, shifting the gear and slamming his foot down on the pedal. The ambulance hesitated briefly before shooting forward, earning multiple cries from the jostled passengers.

However, despite their luck, Cassandra knew they were missing a key factor in their success—Sebastian was still struggling to reach the ambulance. He was still caught in the chaos.

"Connelly, slow down! We can't leave Sebastian!" Cassandra urged.

"Then get him in, Manders! Or else we're all _dead_!"

The last word rang a familiar, hollow memory from her nightmare; however, she refused to allow her fear to deter her. She could wallow in her misery later; not now, for Sebastian's life would be snuffed away by her ignorance.

She leaned her upper body out of the open window, gaze landing upon the endangered veteran detective as he sprinted clumsily after the ambulance. Cassandra proffered her hand, fingers stretching as far as her hand could withstand. "Grab my hand!" she encouraged, her voice drowning in the din of the collapsing city.

Sebastian miraculously heard her words—or perhaps he simply noticed her outstretched appendage—and clamped his own sweaty palm around hers. Cassandra tugged, her bicep trembling under the strain; however, she never let go, helping her fellow detective reach the open window. His other hand found a grip on the door, and Cassandra's own free palm clung to the fabric on his shoulder and gave one final yank. Sebastian came tumbling into the passenger seat, compressed to her side as they shared the small area. Cassandra bent her left leg awkwardly around the gear shift and her hip dug painfully into the center console. It was uncomfortable, and Cassandra suddenly felt more appreciative of Connelly's police cruiser and her wedged position between Julie and Joseph. Nevertheless, she was thankful that Sebastian was safe—that was more important than her luxury.

The ambulance bounced along the unleveled asphalt as it rounded around the center of the courtyard and smashed through the gates. Cassandra felt weightless for a moment as she rose a few inches before landing in her seat again, a hiss emitting from her throat while a grunt passed Sebastian's lips.

"Thanks for the assist back there," he gritted out, adjusting his right leg. Cassandra saw crimson dribbling from an open wound, the torn cloth around the injury doused in dark blood. Her heart leapt at the sight, but she avoided drawing attention to the factor. She could do nothing to heal the veteran detective—not here, not now.

Therefore, she merely shook her head. "Don't thank me yet. We still have to escape this catastrophe," she breathed. Then, in fearful realization, she faced Sebastian worriedly. "Where's Joseph? He went in there with you."

Sebastian appeared stunned at the question, his features forming a blank expression. He twisted his torso to gaze into the back of the ambulance, his chest pressed against her upper arm. She could feel his thrumming heart beating vehemently, as if attempting to escape the confines of his ribs.

He finally leaned back. He seemed uncharacteristically dumbfounded. "I thought he had already made it out," he mumbled. He glanced toward Connelly. "Hey, where's Joseph?"

Connelly sighed heavily, eyes never deviating from the road. "Man, I'm sorry; but he never came out. I'da waited, but between gettin' Manders to her feet and gettin' a vehicle to transport all of us—and the entire city fallin' apart…" His words trailed to silence, and he struggled to finish his explanation. "Just be happy I got you outta there."

Sebastian ran a hand down his face, turning to look out the front windshield. Cassandra felt numb, her shoulders sagging once she fully realized that they had left Joseph at the hospital. He was alone—or, worse, he was dead. She heaved a disappointed sigh, dropping her gaze and listening to the muffled conversation among the passengers in the back of the ambulance.

Her moment of respite and grief ended abruptly, though, for a thunderous roar erupted behind them.

Connelly cursed bitterly. "There's no going back," he wheezed, voice cracking with unknown emotion.

Cassandra glanced at the side mirror herself, blood freezing in her veins once she saw the road disappearing behind them, sending clouds of dirt, debris, and smoke into the air in its wake. Sebastian noticed the phenomenon as well, twisting around and poking his head out of the window. He followed Connelly's example, spitting out a string of curses, as if insulting the fragmenting ground would halt the ensuing calamity.

Then, the corner of a building appeared just above the ambulance.

A pitiful cry of alarm tore through Cassandra's throat as she leaned away from the windshield, hoping to avoid the collapsing tower. The ambulance barely avoided destruction, the resulting tremor lifting the emergency vehicle off the ground for a terrifying moment. Cassandra felt Sebastian's hand grip her elbow, keeping her from flying out of her seat and crushing her skull against the roof.

Connelly swerved to the left, speeding down the sidewalk and alternately colliding with the row of businesses on the left and the parked cars on the right. The path was hardly smooth, and Cassandra could see an abandoned truck barricading the sidewalk ahead of them. Connelly kept driving, waiting until the last second to veer away from the truck and return to the road, another falling object striking the asphalt next to the ambulance.

There was a brief lapse of peace afterwards, and Sebastian loosened his hold on Cassandra's arm and relaxed against the seat, exhaling exasperatedly. Cassandra wanted to enjoy his same relief; however, a glint from an approaching building drew her attention. She leaned forward, squinting as she observed the tall structure—then, suddenly, she detected the oddity.

The tower was splitting in half, moving to the left—or, rather, the _ground_ was sliding to the left, as if the Earth wished to trap them in Krimson City forever.

"Sebastian, Connelly," she beckoned, tone raspy. She did not wait for an answer or acknowledgement from the two men, merely pointing ahead at the dilemma. Cassandra heard the beginning '_s_' to Sebastian's infamous swear word, but the rattling rumble that rang in her ears whisked away the rest of the phrase.

"What do we do?" she asked, temporarily paralyzed in her stupor. She failed to realize that Connelly had not slowed down, keeping the pedal plastered to the floorboards.

"Pray," Connelly replied simply, leaning against the steering wheel, as if the action would force the ambulance to travel faster.

The gap ahead narrowed, an empty bus claiming half of the available space. Cassandra's lips moved soundlessly, but she was unsure upon what she was saying. She only hoped her mindless chant saved their lives.

The ambulance clipped the front of the bus before darting through the opening and zipping down the road, untouched. Cassandra cupped a hand over her mouth, her throbbing heart aching and her mind numb with pure shock. She glanced over at Sebastian, meeting his gaze in silent confirmation: _we lived; we're safe._

The drive was utterly silent for several minutes as Connelly cautiously navigated through the city, heaving breaths and whispers from the rear the only interruptions that broke the unsettled peace. The occasional tremor would rock the ambulance, but the disturbance did not upset the passengers greatly—nothing compared to the destruction they had drove through earlier.

Cassandra and Sebastian shifted often, attempting to find a satisfying medium as they shared the passenger seat. If Cassandra had not been occupied by her strange nightmare, the loss of Joseph, and the fall of Krimson City, she might have blushed at some of their awkward positions.

At some point, Sebastian had queried about the radio, and Cassandra had mutely readjusted to give him easy access to the aforementioned device. Since then, Sebastian kept switching among the channels, receiving static from every end.

The ambulance was just entering a tunnel when Sebastian finally stopped, scrubbing his forehead in frustration. "Are we cut off from everyone?" he asked, directing the question to no one in particular. Cassandra did not bother to answer, staring blankly ahead. Thankfully, Connelly decided to satisfy the veteran detective's musing.

"Everyone must be dead," the officer replied quietly.

Sebastian shook his head indignantly, as if defying the notion—as if he did not want to believe Connelly. He turned slightly, glancing at the three rear passengers who, for the majority of the time, seemed nonexistent. "Everyone all right back there?" he asked.

Cassandra heard Julie's clear tone above the drone of the emergency vehicle. "Just a few bumps. We're fine, otherwise."

Cassandra furrowed her brow when she detected a soft voice; however, she was unable to form any words from the vague muttering. She strained her ears, somewhat curious as to what was being spoken; unfortunately, another male—the doctor, undoubtedly—decided to add to the conversation, interrupting Cassandra's concentration.

"We will be once we're far away," the doctor confirmed.

Sebastian nodded, facing forward again. "A little further and we'll be fine," he said. Then, his gaze landed on Cassandra. Aforementioned woman could feel his hard stare, but she was unwilling to openly acknowledge him. Finally, Sebastian asked her, "How are you holding up, Manders?"

A thousand responses flooded her brain, but she only chose one, simple answer: "I'm fine." She could have sworn that her dull tone could have rivaled Julie's own inflectionless tenor. She hated the comparison.

Therefore, to correct her solemn mood, she countered Sebastian's enquiry. "And how about you, Sebastian?" Her eyes locked onto the laceration on his right calf, a grimace shadowing her features further. "You came out of that hospital with a nasty wound."

Sebastian shifted his leg, a frown tugging at his lips. "To be honest, I forgot it was there." He shrugged, as if he dealt with such serious injuries daily. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you how I got it."

Cassandra's eyebrows rose high on her forehead, her head finally swiveling in Sebastian's direction. "Believe you?" she parroted, keeping her voice low. "You wouldn't believe _me_ if I told you what happened after you and Jo—after you entered the hospital."

"Yeah?" he huffed in dry humor. "Perhaps we should exchange tales somet—"

He sentence cut off abruptly as soon as he glanced at the rear view mirror. Then, violently, he spun around, staring through the window viewing into the back of the ambulance.

Cassandra, utterly baffled, turned with him. She found nothing but the three passengers huddled together on the bench. "What's wrong?" she asked Sebastian, shifting to give the veteran detective some more space. He never responded, gaze glued to some unidentifiable object. Cassandra shook her head minutely, squinting as she tried to perceive whatever Sebastian was looking at.

Then, the radio began to hum, filling with static that progressively increased in frequency. Cassandra's wide eyes fell on the device. She knew that warning sound too well. "Turn it off," she said, voice barely above a scratchy whisper.

Sebastian snapped his head in her direction. Her utterance had gained his full concern. "What?" he pressed.

"The radio," she breathed. "You have to turn it off!"

Sebastian seemed hopelessly caught between granting her request and continuing his strange pursuit.

Fortunately for him, he never had to make a decision.

The ambulance jerked to the right, to the left, and back again, dangerously brushing the tunnel's concrete walls. Cassandra alternated between being pinned against the console to pinning Sebastian to the passenger door, earning grunts from both of them. A solid, sharp collision with the wall interrupted the sequence and sent Cassandra sliding forward in her seat. She raised her arms protectively to keep her head from meeting the dashboard, pain lancing through her bones and shooting down her spine when Sebastian pulled her upright.

Cassandra rested a hand on her forehead, turning toward Connelly in confusion—only to find the police officer in a frenzied state. She gasped, retracting from the ill officer and leaning toward Sebastian.

The veteran detective seemed just as surprised as she was, staring at the driver and exclaiming, "Connelly!"

Cassandra expected Connelly to shake his head, regain his senses, and correct the wild path the ambulance had taken; however, the only changes that occurred were the pulsating bubbles that arose on his face, the thin streams of blood that oozed from his nostrils, and the network of veins that bulged from his skin.

"What's happening to him?" she asked—although, she doubted Sebastian could hear her over the squealing tires.

Cassandra supposed she would never know if Sebastian received her question, for Julie chose that moment to press against the glass window and shout: "Look out!"

Both Cassandra and Sebastian snapped their eyes back to the road, the former's blood freezing at the bleak sight. The tunnel ended only a few yards ahead, the asphalt and concrete torn away and revealing a grey, foreboding sky. Connelly was going to send them plummeting off the cliff, and neither Cassandra or Sebastian could hinder his course—the ambulance was too fast, and the remaining road was too short to provide enough friction to prevent the crash. They were too late.

In seconds, the ambulance was soaring through the air, arching across the sky in a spectacular leap. Cassandra's eyes widened as she stared at the ground seemingly miles below them. The cloaked menace, her nightmare, the destruction of Krimson City—none of those events compared to the raw fear that wrapped around her brain and pierced her racing heart.

She could remember closing her eyes, shutting out the blurred world; she could remember multiple cries erupting throughout the emergency vehicle, ringing in her ears; she could remember leaving her seat and gravitating toward the windshield, only to be firmly tugged back and secured there by a pair of hands—all of these occurrences replayed perfectly in her memory.

However, she never remembered hitting the ground, the arms of blissful unconsciousness welcoming her for a second time.

* * *

><p><span><strong>To the<strong> **Reviewers:**

_**DestinyIntertwined: ** _Thank you, and I'm glad that you have found my work interesting! Hopefully, Cassandra flows well into _The Evil Within _story as this tale progresses; and, believe me, she will be placed into several horrific situations - but whether she retains her sanity or not is questionable. I suppose we shall see soon enough... ;)

Also, you are not alone upon finding Ruvik intriguing; truly, I would love to add much more to his role in this story, if only to explore his character a bit more. He is the mastermind behind this world, after all.

Again, thank you for the review, and I hope you enjoyed Chapter II as well!

**_Forgetful Insanity: _**Here is the next Chapter, as promised; and thank for reviewing! I hope not to disappoint!

**_EnigmaUniverse: _**Well, I would not say my writing is flawless - I still see room for improvement whenever I glance back over the Chapters. Nevertheless, I am highly flattered that you enjoy my story so much, and I thank you greatly for your wonderful review! I am hoping Chapter II keeps up the momentum and keeps you involved! :)

**_Leyshla Gisel: _ **Here's the new update! Hope you liked it!


	3. Chapter 3: Wicked

**Author's Note: **Welcome back, dear readers, and I am glad to finally present Chapter 3 to all of you. I apologize for the lateness of this update, but with Thanksgiving, baking, and a brief period of illness, I have been quite preoccupied. Luckily, though, that is behind us, and the schedule has been decently cleared up. I thank you greatly for your patience :)

Now, on a more _important note_, there is an element of the story I wish to address. That element is the 'hospital' that Sebastian revisits throughout the game. Of course this place will play an important role in the plot (details that you shall discover much later), but not the same role as it had in the game. Chiefly, in my eyes, this hospital was a place to upgrade Sebastian; but, in a story arc such as this, it seems awkward to translate that use into writing - at least directly. Could you imagine voluntarily sitting in a chair and injecting yourself with foreign substances that supposedly 'enhance' your abilities, over and over again? Exactly. So, though I may not reveal exactly what I plan to do with this place or what exactly it _is _(yet), I wanted to give fair warning upon the changes that will, eventually, occur.

All right, I won't keep you all distracted anymore. A huge thank you to all the followers, favorites, and reviewers, and I hope that you all enjoy Chapter 3!

_**Disclaimer: I do not own The Evil Within whatsoever. Any OCs or scenes not seen in the game are rightfully my creations and property.**_

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><p><strong>Chapter III:<strong>

**Wicked**

"_It is the dim haze of mystery that adds enchantment to pursuit." –Antoine Rivarol_

* * *

><p>Various hues of red—that was the only color Sebastian's brain could register as the world blinked in and out of existence. He was faintly aware of the pristinely dressed man to his left and the nurse at his feet, both of their discolored faces inflectionless. The ceiling flowed past him in a blur and the overhead lights would appear and disappear at regular intervals, hinting to Sebastian that these indifferent people were pushing him somewhere—down a <em>hallway<em>, actually, if the close proximity of the walls and the steady, unwavering pace of his company meant anything.

He blinked, his head rolling to the side. He caught a glimpse of the floor and the endless stretch of chain-link blockading the thick pipes that were integrated into the walls. His brow furrowed in confusion, drops of sweat racing across his forehead after the disturbance. Where was he being carted off to? His last memory was in an ambulance, tumbling down a cliff and plummeting toward the ground. And, before that, he had watched an entire _city_ fall to ruins. Therefore, how had he ended up here? Where _was_ here? And where were the others?

Sebastian grunted, hazily staring at the ceiling again. His muscles were taut as he attempted to bend his knees and flex his arms—except, he found the simple motion impossible, his limbs stubbornly remaining stationary. Jaw clenching, he tried again, summoning whatever strength his body still retained; but, nothing changed. He was unable to move, despite his best efforts.

Sucking in a breath, he lifted his head to examine his dilemma, his hands curling into fists once he found the source of his restricted mobility. Restraints wrapped around his ankles and wrists, pinning him to the metallic table he was lying on and refusing to bend to his ferocious will.

His lips moved, demanding to be released; however, his voice failed to translate the message—he spoke muted words. The man and nurse did not even acknowledge his obvious struggle, their steps never faltering as they guided him onward to his unknown destination. He tried to crane his neck backwards to see where their current path ended; however, the correct angle was impossible to attain. He only saw the ceiling, seemingly traveling miles ahead of him.

A handful of disorienting seconds passed before the environment surrounding Sebastian changed. The frame of a wide doorway arched over his head as he entered a new room. His eyes darted everywhere, catching glimpses of cabinetry and discarded gurneys. He strained against the bands around his wrists and ankles once more, the desperate attempt at escape only tiring his already exhausted muscles and pinching his skin. The man and nurse who had escorted him straightened, never casting a single glance toward Sebastian. They merely turned their backs to him and sauntered down the pathway they had just taken, melting into the red-stained shadows.

Sebastian's chest rose and fell heavily, as if a weight had been placed on his ribs, forcing him to strive for every breath of oxygen he desired. The room tilted occasionally, imprinting images on his brain before it faded away into a new, altered vision. The abnormality summoned a dull headache and increased the rapidity of his heart, the rush of his blood echoing in his ears. Truly, he was tempted to simply close his eyes and sleep off the strange visages that marred his mind and the accompanying side effects that poisoned his body.

But his hopes of recovery were crushed when a wet _smack_ garnered his attention. He leaned forward, sweat slipping down his face and dripping off the tip of his chin. He saw a hand resting on the metal next to his foot, fingers splayed and nails biting into the table. Then, another hand joined its partner, slamming next to Sebastian's opposite foot. A morphed head peeked over the edge soon afterward, swaying to the left and right, as if unbalanced. Shoulders followed, along with a drooped, deformed figure that hovered over the end of the table.

Sebastian was given two, numbing seconds before the disfigured creature began to slink toward him, crawling onto the table and sluggishly hauling his lower body off the ground. Sebastian, lips curled in a disgusted scowl, fought against his restraints as the monstrous being lumbered forward. His escape was unreachable, though—he had discovered this startling fact during his trip to this nightmarish room, long before this terrifying moment. He was merely denying the inevitable outcome that awaited him once the creature gained its senses and struck. He could watch, but he could not act. It was torturous.

A palm grasped his shoulder, and Sebastian swiveled his head away, every muscle in his body tensing in bleak anticipation. Through his crimson, blurry vision, he saw a fist wavering in the air, high above his head. Unfortunately, that position was only temporary, and the clenched hand swung down at him—

And it vanished.

Sebastian woke up, bolting upright and gasping for breath. A thin layer of sweat coated his skin, creating an uncomfortable, sticky sensation. His breathing was quick and raspy—a resultant of panic, perhaps—as he observed his new surroundings, gratefully noting the lack of restraints pinning him down and the dispersion of the monster that had attempted to crush his skull; however, he remained wary of his new location, examining the layout of the area with scrutiny

Filthy, linoleum floors covered the ground, meeting the rough, stone walls in a rectangular shape. He himself sat on a weak mattress that bowed under his weight, groaning with every shift of his stiff frame. To his right stood a desk adorned with newspapers, an empty mug, and a lamp balancing precariously on the corner (a useless light source, he supposed, considering the thick layer of dust that was draped across its surface). An old-fashioned heater sat a couple yards away from the desk, hugging the stone wall; and, opposite of the aforementioned heater, a toilet and a suspended sink sat consecutively at the foot of his makeshift bed.

Sebastian swung his legs over the edge of the mattress and stood on his feet; however, the pain coursing through his aching body forced him to hunch forward and press his hand gingerly against his ribs. His free palm reached toward the desk, his fingers curling around the edge as he regained his balance. What had happened to him? Had the ambulance truly crashed? Had he actually survived that fall? If so, who could have possibly rescued him from that catastrophe? The world had been thrown into chaos when he had slipped away from reality; therefore, how many survivors would be able—no, _willing_ to pull him from the wreckage and transport him _here_? The chances were slim; yet, his accommodation did not melt into a fictional pool—his theory revealed nothing more than the pure ludicrous state his situation had taken.

Exhaling, his gaze flitted to the desk's surface. A particular article on the front page of one of the newspapers snatched his attention, and he leaned forward, squinting as he mumbled the words aloud: "'Bodies Found in Lakeside Town. Cause of Death Remains a Mystery.'" He frowned, glancing through the details briefly before turning away from the post. He had read that same article in the past, and the revelation certainly was not a grand, new discovery—it was dated, unsolved. Why had he been given old newspapers? Was the article relevant? Was he skipping over an important clue?

A quick scan revealed that the other newspapers were as old as the first, their dates all clustered together into a single week of news. Frustration twisted his features, mingling with a grimace as he shuffled away from the desk. A deep, burning agony kindled around his ribs, and his legs were stiff and numb, his right calf occasionally flaring with pain whenever his stride became too adventurous and eager.

He had barely advanced a yard from the desk when the room flickered, shifting suddenly to a different scene—_flames; broken glass; a face_—before returning to its normal, desolate aura. Sebastian blinked, attempting to recall the flash of imagery he had witnessed; however, his brain replayed the memory too quickly for him to grasp, answering his curiosity with a fragmented, inaccurate display—a skeleton to the original.

Shaking his head, Sebastian focused on the door up ahead. Light filtered through the barred window, creating a striped rectangle on the linoleum floors. "Hello?" he called, adding power to his tone in order to amplify his voice. "Anybody there?"

He drew closer, bones aching with every stumbling step he took. Gratefulness swelled in his chest when his palm finally touched the cool metal, providing him a second support in reward for his minor accomplishment to cross the room. He squinted, shielding his eyes against the harsh light of the outside world as he leaned his face close to the bars and peered through the portal. He was immediately met with a door similar to his own, its barricaded window dark and lifeless; but, this hardly concerned him, for he was distracted by the click and scuttle of roaches swarming on the space adjacent to the dull door.

Sebastian breathed a curse, propping his forearm against the doorframe and studying the strange phenomenon. Of course, he had dealt with roaches before—it was a common battle he had to fight to exterminate the pesky creatures. An endless train of them scurrying up the wall, though? He could not proclaim witnessing such a spectacle outside the cliché horror film.

His attention remained set on the roaches for several long seconds (it seemed an hour) until a change in scenery occurred. A woman donning a nurse's garb entered his vision, features impassive and appearance impeccably neat. Sebastian regarded her warily, shifting away from the door instinctually.

Then, suddenly, recognition dawned in his mind. He visibly recoiled. "You're that nurse—you _brought_ me here," he said.

The aforementioned woman seemed to ignore his statement, reaching forward and unlocking the door to his cell. "Are we awake?" she asked, voice monotone with a hint of loftiness. She pulled down the handle and pushed the metallic door open, the hinges creaking shrilly.

His jaw tightened, and he drew his arm around his ribs more defensively. He had yet to judge whether this nurse was an adversary or an ally to him. Still, he felt compelled to provide his own question, probing: "Is everyone else all right? The city?"

"Whatever are you talking about?" she countered, tilting her head to the side in a curious fashion. She clicked her tongue. "You are the only soul here—right now."

She turned, disappearing around the corner while her heels translated her progress down the hall. Sebastian, momentarily dumbfounded, hurriedly stumbled toward the door, pressing his palm against the doorframe as he stepped over the threshold.

"There were five people with me in that ambulance!" he called after the woman, shoulders sagging in weariness. "Are you telling me they're—"

The nurse was nowhere in sight. Even her footsteps had faded.

Sebastian ducked his head, exhaling exasperatedly. After collecting his thoughts, he lifted his gaze and briefly studied the hallway. He glanced to the left first, noting the two additional doorways (identical copies to his own) and the elegant mirror dignifying the end of the passage (although, the reflective glass held no image, a deep grey smothering the surface). The roaches that had been swarming the walls were absent, allowing Sebastian to see the uncleanly concrete with its spindly cracks and its roughly-drawn symbols.

Sebastian's gaze sharpened, and he shuffled toward the opposing wall, gaze locked on the aforementioned symbol adorning the concrete next to the door. He brushed his fingertips over the familiar sign, lips pressed in a firm line as he recalled the photograph he had presented to Joseph and Cassandra. A blocky-style depiction on the victim's arm—a target, or a signification that they had been facing the work of a serial killer. Why was it here, though? What significance did it pose?

He scanned the other three doors, finding several more posted around the two doors further down the hall; his own, however, was pure innocence, free of any imperfections. But what did that mean for him? Who had been in those other cells?

Dragging a hand down his features, he stored the symbol's image in the back of his mind for later examination. For now, he decided to trail after the nurse, directing his feet to the right and hobbling down the remainder of the hall. A fifth, open door led into a lobby with black and white tiles and unkempt wallpaper. A reception desk was stationed at his immediate left while the right side of the room offered a couple of chairs; a couch shoved in the corner; a newspaper stand; an old phonograph; fake plants; a grandfather clock; and a billboard covered with various papers.

A single eyebrow arched on his brow as he absorbed his surroundings. "Is this some sort of hospital?" he mumbled, the question intended for no one in particular.

The nurse, however, decided to intervene. "This place is necessary for you," she explained, suddenly appearing behind the reception desk. Sebastian snapped his eyes in her direction, cautiously wandering toward the aforementioned desk. She watched him, calm and collected as she added, "You're always welcome here."

_Is that supposed to make me feel better?_ Sebastian opted not to utter the snide comment. If this lady was willing to offer him some form of help, he would play along for the time being.

"I've been hospitalized?" he prodded, resting his elbow on the counter for support. The throbbing aches were steadily increasing, he noticed, spiking with every contraction of his heart.

She cocked her head again. "I'm afraid I cannot answer that." Then, she gestured toward the counter before her where a stack of forms and a pen sat undisturbed. "Please," she urged, "sign in here."

Sebastian hesitated, eyeing the designated papers suspiciously. He wanted to deny the request, an odd instinct warning him of the unimaginable consequences. But, then he asked himself a simple question: what else was he supposed to do? This world he had plunged into was foreign to him—more mysterious and leery the further he traveled. He had no desire to deviate too far into the unknown; and this monotone, evasive nurse was his only guide. He would take the risk.

He snatched up the pen and jotted down his signature, the letters looping and curving across the bottom of the forum: _Sebastian Castellanos_.

The nurse hummed, seemingly pleased. "Without signing in, there is no way to ensure your future memories," she informed as she strode away, hips swaying and ponytail bouncing.

"'Ensure my future memories'?" he repeated. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Of course, the nurse never answered, only flipping a switch on the wall. "This way, please."

An iron-bar door, just a foot away from the bulletin board and the grandfather clock, swung open, groaning mournfully. A sigh escaped Sebastian's lips as he pushed away from the reception desk and shambled toward the new pathway. He passed a washbasin and another, grey-smothered mirror, the area reeking of multiple odors—odors that Sebastian could describe in one word.

"Smells like medicine," he remarked, his halfhearted humor failing to amuse.

The narrow space broadened, opening to another dreary space. An antique chair sat in the center, illuminated by a single, overhead light and accompanied by two suspended IV bags. He stopped, shaking his head in utter bafflement. What was this nurse going to make him do now?

A door opened behind him and, before he could turn around to find the source, the nurse passed him, saying, "You are all right. Please, relax."

Her attempt at comfort worked no wonders whatsoever on Sebastian, who stared after her blankly.

Fortunately, Sebastian was given no time to reply with a sarcastic retort, the woman's impassive voice instructing, "Please, have a seat."

Sebastian gaze shifted from the nurse to the antique chair, his suspicion growing rapidly. True, every bone in his body begged for him to sit and provide them with the rest they so desired; his mind, however, viewed the situation with outright mistrust, suggesting an alternative choice: _refuse_.

"You have no reason to be afraid." Sebastian guessed that the nurse withheld little patience; but, whether she was frustrated or not remained a mystery to him—much like the rest of this place.

Sebastian gritted his teeth, finally choosing to continue this act and sit down in the chair. The cushions were flat and the armrests were covered in filth, but the relaxed position eased his tense muscles and soothed the pain that arced through his body. His eyelids felt heavy, and his head touched the back of the chair, as if he were dozing. The thought certainly sounded amazing, but, of course, the peace was shattered within seconds of arriving.

The world rippled again—_heat radiated all around him; smoke filled his lungs; his right leg throbbed; hands were curled around his biceps_—before settling back into reality; this reality, however, became nightmarish, the snapping of locks echoing in his ears. Alarmed, Sebastian went to rise, only to find metal bands securing his wrists and ankles—oh, bitter déjà vu.

"You mustn't fight it," the nurse said. A contraption sat atop his head, the sharp tips of needles prodding his scalp. "This is for your own good."

The sound of a machine coming to life startled Sebastian, and he fought desperately against this new trap. "No! Stop!" he demanded, wriggling in his chair. His heart pounded and his adrenaline pumped furiously through his veins, fueling his desperate urge to escape the forthcoming—

_Pain._

Various needles sunk into his skin—most prominently, his _head_. He clenched his jaw and ground his teeth as a jolt of agony shot down his spine and dispersed throughout his body. The world was dipped in crimson again, pulsating and flickering. His vision flitted between two scenes—this insane hospital and a blurred visage. Both felt real and tangible, yet they both fought to be the dominate reality in his brain. The struggle initiated a wracking migraine that forced him to shut his eyes and cut off the distorted world, the thrumming of his heart the only detail he truly focused upon.

Then, as quickly as the pain had emerged, it disappeared.

"There now, you see? All better," the nurse said, her voice originating somewhere from his right. He did not dare open his eyes until he was positive that he had a good grip on his senses.

The headpiece lifted, releasing Sebastian. The bands cuffing his wrists and ankles, however, were not so kind, remaining stationary. "Lady," Sebastian began as he waited impatiently for the other restraints to finally retract, "am I going crazy?"

His arms and legs were still trapped, and his panic rekindled. He tugged against the unforgiving metal, his vision tainted in a deeper red. The roar of a fire surrounded him, reverberating in his skull and warming his skin. His eyes darted wildly to his feet as he watched a wall of orange flames explode from the ground, crackling and spitting with rage and vengefulness.

Sebastian heard the nurse answer his question, the din of the fire drowning her voice. He glanced toward her, eyes widening as he saw the flames engulfing her body. Still, though, she had that curious twinkle in her eyes as she said, "Now what makes you say that?"

The flames snaked up his legs and brushed his forearms, the inferno rising up all around him. The chair wobbled as Sebastian struggled, searing heat racing up his back and cupping the back of his neck. He released a pained cry, the world submerging completely into crimson before merging with darkness in sweet unconsciousness.

"_I'll be waiting._"

* * *

><p>Sebastian awoke to the distant crackling of a churning fire and the wisps of smoke that filled his burning lungs. A dry cough tore through his raw throat, urging him to sit upright and raise a hand to his mouth and nose to block the invading fumes. His vision was hopelessly hazy, but he managed to distinguish the flickering flames several yards below him, consuming a familiar vehicle and ruining its vibrant red and white paintjob.<p>

_The ambulance_.

His discomfort dissipated, replaced with concern as he scanned the emergency vehicle. His eyes flitted to every window, searching desperately for any recognizable form amongst the dense smoke and orange blaze; however, to his surprise—and relief—the ambulance seemed abandoned, its carcass left to scorch in the dark woods. Still, that did not settle his consternation. Five other people had accompanied him in that ambulance, fleeing a collapsing city and driving off a steep cliff—where were they if they were not trapped in the emergency vehicle? How had _he_ landed here, safely separated from the ravenous fire that afflicted the ambulance? Someone had to have dragged him away from the inferno.

Twisting his torso, he began to search the area around him; and, immediately, his gaze found a feminine figure reclining against a nearby tree trunk, eyes half-lidded and head tilting lazily to the side. A thin stream of blood trickled from a shallow cut across her temple, wickedly matching her disheveled hair.

A name left his lips before he fully processed the woman's identity. "Manders?" he called, a sharp cough following the single word. The woman—Cassandra Manders, his mind finally recalled—furrowed her brow, straightening her posture and staring in his general direction. She seemed baffled initially, but her awareness appeared to spark once she focused on him.

"Sebastian," she responded in a greeting tone. She scrubbed at the side of her face, smearing the trickle of blood onto her hand. She glanced at her palm distastefully for a moment before regarding Sebastian again. "You okay?"

"Never better," he huffed, rolling onto his hands and knees before regaining his footing. His right calf quivered under his weight, and he examined the aforementioned appendage questioningly. The laceration he had received at Beacon Mental Hospital glowed a dull crimson in the firelight, earning a soft curse from Sebastian.

Cassandra's gaze followed his own. She frowned. "Your leg says otherwise," she noted, slowly standing as she used the tree trunk for support. "I may be able to find something around the ambulance. Something could have fallen out."

Sebastian switched his attention from his wound to the wrecked ambulance. He shook his head. "Not worth it. I'll manage," he decided. Cassandra, however, was already easing down the hillside, brown eyes focused intently on the emergency vehicle ravished by hungry flames. His fingers caught her shoulder as she passed him, her urgent pace nearly upsetting his balance. "I said, leave it. Let's find the others first, then we'll worry about my leg."

Cassandra turned to face him, eyebrows arched upward. "You barely managed to escape the hospital with that injury. Do you truly believe that you can stumble around a forest for God knows how long?" she asked, a biting edge to her tone.

Under different circumstances, Sebastian may have pursued the challenge and argued with her just as fervently; however, after what he had witnessed within the past hour, he decided to settle for a different approach—a calmer, quicker approach. "Look, we don't have time to scavenge the place for materials—_if_ anything survived the crash and the fire. Meanwhile, while we're squandering our time, everyone else could be in an equally critical condition." He retracted his hand, letting it fall back to his side as he shifted his weight. "And since it is _my_ well-being we are discussing, I can make the final decision upon what we do."

He gestured toward the crest of the hill, watching expectantly as Cassandra followed the motion and stared at the designated destination. She pursed her lips, releasing a gust of air that sent a few strands of her hair flying upward. "Fine," she quipped at last. Then, extending her hand, she added, "If you're that determined, fine; but at least let me help you."

Sebastian almost laughed at her strict stubbornness, but ultimately decided to suppress his amusement and let the subject slip. He draped an arm across her shoulders, her hand curling around the wrist of his aforementioned appendage while her opposite palm clung to the fabric across his back.

Sebastian would not call their trek up the hillside graceful, but he would admit (not aloud) that he appreciated Cassandra's assistance. With every awkward step he took along the uneven terrain, he could feel the flesh around the laceration stretch along the underlying muscle. It was as if he were experiencing the slice of the chainsaw for a second time—as if he were fleeing the bloody maniac and rushing toward the safety of the elevator once more. The memory made him grimace. Fortunately, Cassandra could not witness the expression due to the deep blackness that enwrapped them.

The roar of the fire faded behind them, replaced by the resounding caw of unseen crows and the snapping of twigs beneath Sebastian's and Cassandra's feet. No worn path or blatant signs were present to guide them through the maze of gnarled trees and tangled shrubbery—actually, if anyone asked, Sebastian would have shrugged and said, 'instinct.' Neither he nor Cassandra dictated which direction to trudge toward; they merely chose the easiest route up the hillside, avoiding the ancient oaks with their thick, bulging roots and the occasional rocky outcropping that jutted from the tall grass. It was a silently adopted system with no open acknowledgements or disagreements—_cooperation_.

Cassandra's boot crushed another fallen limb, startling a group of nearby crows. The black-feathered birds squawked and flew, spiraling upwards and melting into the night sky. Cassandra was distracted by the birds, her eyes following their whirlwind path; however, Sebastian's nose detected a wretched scent that garnered a greater part of his attention. His gaze left the departing crows and turned toward the slab of stone the birds had been perched on—although, he was hardly satisfied by the grisly sight that met his eyes. Sprawled across the ground was a dead animal, its hide torn wide open and its entrails displayed in a ghastly fashion—a former feast for a family of scavenging crows.

Cassandra seemed to finally loose interest in the aforementioned birds, for she lowered her head and followed Sebastian's stare, gasping, "Oh my God..."

Sebastian scowled. "Let's keep moving," he suggested—or, rather, urged, already stepping forward and tugging Cassandra alongside him. The redheaded detective was overly compliant, mimicking his stride.

A faint glow split through the thick blanket of darkness ahead of them, highlighting the mist that hung in the cool air. Again, Sebastian and Cassandra silently agreed to approach the beacon, their gait quickening as their hopes rose steadily. The slope they had been ascending flattened, and the surrounding foliage came to an abrupt halt, revealing a stone ledge overlooking a dirt road and a weatherworn shack with a yellow light emitting from its broken windows.

And, glimmering in the night, balancing precariously on the edge of the precipice, was a lit lantern.

Sebastian retracted from Cassandra's side, and the redheaded detective allowed his arm to slip off her shoulders, her own grip becoming lax. Sebastian approached the lantern, mindful of the steep drop-off inches away from his feet as he stooped down and curled his fingers around the handle. He held the lantern aloft and studied its warm glow, straightening back to his full height.

Cassandra joined him moments later, releasing a sigh as she basked in the light. Then, suddenly, she started, her attention diverted to the ground below. "Who is that?" she queried lowly, garnering Sebastian's interest. He peered down at the beaten road, pinpointing a humanoid figure sluggishly walking toward the shack.

His heart lifted in jubilance. Was that one of the others from the ambulance?

He waved his free hand, attempting to draw the person's attention. "Hey!" he shouted, his voice bouncing off the rocks and echoing throughout the forest. However, despite the ambitious greeting, the figure continued to trudge into the shack and disappear from view. Sebastian was hardly deterred.

Passing Cassandra and following the ledge to the right, he hopped down to a lower ridge, loose pebbles tumbling into the darkness after the unwelcomed disturbance. He began to hasten down the steep surface of the second landing, arms outspread for balance and eyes trained on the roughhewn rocks.

Up above, Sebastian could hear Cassandra hiss a curse before another set of fumbling footsteps joined his own. "Sebastian, wait—"

The majority of Cassandra's sentence was lost to Sebastian as his right foot slipped from beneath him. He fell, gravity heaving him forward and the unforgiving ground eagerly meeting his body. The sharp contact made him grunt in pain, and the accompanying jabs only worsened his predicament as he toppled to the dirt road.

He eventually stopped, resting on his back at the base of the rocky crag. His left hand still held the lantern, his knuckles white from the strength of his grip; his opposite palm, however, cradled his thigh as his calf throbbed agonizingly from the jarring fall. He breathed a curse, forcing himself to sit upright and regain his bearings.

Cassandra—who had observed Sebastian's ungraceful descent and opted for a slower, safer pace—reached the foot of the cliff and jogged to his position. She released a heavy breath and placed her hands on either side of her hips. "Headfirst, huh?" she asked breathlessly. Though concern creased her features, Cassandra's voice was tinged with a sarcastic exasperation.

Sebastian spared her a glance. "Now's hardly the time for wisecracks," he countered, glowering.

She huffed a sigh, extending a hand toward him. Sebastian accepted the silent offer, clasping her hand and rising to his feet. Once he regained his balance, he mildly brushed away Cassandra's lingering support, mumbling a 'thanks' to the redheaded detective.

In turn, she nodded, gaze staring past his shoulder in a distracted manner. He could see her jaw visibly tauten, and he hastily turned around to investigate her source of distress. His eyes scanned the road initially, the dirt track eventually leading him to the illuminated shack he had seen his person of interest stumble into—except, there was a disturbing change to the desolate building. Through the wide, open doorway, there was a shadow displayed on the wall, depicting a humanoid figure hunkered down and clawing at some unidentifiable object on the ground.

Sebastian's muscles clenched as he edged down the road, his grip on the lantern becoming rather painful. From the corner of his eye, he saw Cassandra shadowing his side, lips pursed and features carefully neutral; however, Sebastian managed to detect her uneasiness through her stiff gait and balled fists, her right hand distinctly hovering near the holster on her hip—an _empty_ holster.

He paused when he reached the outskirts of the shack, raising his arm and placing a hand on Cassandra's shoulder—a wordless order to _stay_. She scrunched her nose in a stubborn, indignant expression, but she provided another nod nonetheless. Sebastian hesitated another moment before finally passing the lantern to the redheaded detective, figuring that the light emanating from the shack would provide efficiently for him.

He proceeded forward cautiously, his shaky exhales resembling a roaring wind to his ears. He anxiously watched the hunched shadow on the wall, wondering if the figure would notice his approach—and, even more pressing, whether the figure would attack if disturbed. Sebastian had no gun, having lost the weapon somewhere within Beacon Mental Hospital—disarmed amongst the confusion.

But, perhaps he would not need it.

Glinting wickedly in the yellow light, Sebastian saw a handgun resting in the dirt, accompanied by a pair of handcuffs and a primed pocket knife. Sebastian knelt down, grasping the handle of the abandoned gun and slipping his forefinger over the trigger. _Now_ he was armed.

Straightening, Sebastian continued onward, approaching the entrance with soft footsteps. He kept his eyes plastered to the shadow until he finally rounded the corner, his body bathed in warm light. He squinted, his eyes adjusting to the change in brightness as he attempted to identify the possible threat before him. Immediately, the blue attire the figure wore registered as familiar, his brain recalling the Krimson City police force—and, more specifically, Officer Connelly.

As soon as the name flitted across his mind, he muttered aloud, "Connelly?"

Sebastian regretted his reflexive utterance, for soon after he mentioned the officer, his gaze landed upon the unmoving figure sprawled on the ground. He saw too late the shining lake of blood that surrounded the body and splotched the officer's uniform.

Then a mauled head fell to the ground, splashing into the crimson pool beneath it and splattering the substance further.

Sebastian numbly shifted backwards, the gun in his hand momentarily forgotten once his ears registered an inhuman growl erupting from the throat of the former, _living_ being. Slowly, the officer turned, shoulders sagging and head lolled awkwardly to the side in twisted curiosity. The yellow-tinted light was unable to illuminate the officer's features, for his hunched form guarded his face from the glow; however, a blinding streak of lightning remedied the problem, banishing away the shadows of the night with its electric white light—and in that brief second, Sebastian saw every gruesome detail that composed his opponent.

The face certainly belonged to Officer Connelly, but the man had been infected with bulging veins and hollow cysts that pulsated rhythmically. His eyes were bloodshot, and thin streams of crimson flowed from his nose and ears, pooling around the collar of his uniform and soaking into the blue cloth. He was the same as he had been before the ambulance crashed—he was still altered, with no obvious signs that he had ever reverted back to his former, healthy state.

Connelly snarled, revealing bloody teeth flecked with flesh. He rose, spinning on his heels and heaving great breaths. Then, he charged, arms flailing and an animalistic cry tearing past his lips.

Sebastian dodged to the left, mindful of his right leg as he reeled away from the rampaging Connelly. The officer stumbled, growling as he whipped around wildly in search of Sebastian; however, he forgot the veteran detective quickly, for his deranged gaze focused on the beacon of light farther down the road, held in the hand of another possible victim.

Cassandra was mortified.

Sebastian spat a curse, suddenly remembering the gun in his hand. "Connelly, stop!" he shouted before the officer could pursue the redheaded detective. Connelly's head snapped in Sebastian's direction, hands twitching uncontrollably and lips still curled back in a snarl. Sebastian lifted the handgun, lightly squeezing the trigger in preparation. "Connelly, I don't want to shoot you. Just—"

But Connelly was lost to Sebastian, consumed by his rage and madness. He sprinted toward Sebastian, arms outstretched and fingers grasping at empty air. Sebastian's instincts reacted faster than his brain, and he fired the first bullet. Blood spouted from the new hole in Connelly's shoulder, and the officer howled in pain. He attempted to strike again, but Sebastian retaliated, another bullet sinking into the opposing officer's chest. Still, Connelly did not fall, his anger fueling his actions.

The third shot did not fail, though. Sebastian aimed higher, pulling the trigger and watching as Connelly's skull fractured under the impact. The officer crumpled, the stench of his fresh blood swirling into the air and seeping into Sebastian's lungs.

Sebastian lowered the gun, exhaling laboriously. He stared at the deceased Connelly. "My God, Connelly," he murmured. He shifted forward, examining the infected corpse with a mixture of sympathy and disgust—a concoction that urged him to turn away. He glanced toward Cassandra, assuring himself that the redheaded detective remained unscathed. She was; however, the horror splayed across her features protested against her physical wellbeing.

Sebastian navigated around Connelly's body, trekking toward the shack. Before he disappeared into the building, he waved toward Cassandra, gesturing for her to join him. She seemed hesitant, but she eventually conceded and strode in his direction, eyes focused on the ground.

Sebastian slipped into the shack and skimmed the place, careful to avoid the gutted and headless form lying prone in the center of the room. He found nothing useful, except for the fallen lantern glowing in the corner. After a moment of debate, he claimed the lantern for himself, hooking the handle onto his belt and leaving the shack. If he and Cassandra ever became separated, they would each have their own light source.

Cassandra stood at the entrance, her gaze transfixed on Connelly's body. Sebastian cleared his throat and she faced him, lips pressed into a thin line.

She shook her head. "What _happened_ to him?" she asked, voice layered with an unknown emotion. Terror? Sadness? Either seemed possible.

Sebastian holstered his gun, frowning. "No idea. But whatever happened, it began on the ambulance," he said. Then, in sudden remembrance, he spoke, "Before Connelly lost his mind, you said something about the radio. You wanted to turn it off. Why?"

Cassandra furrowed her brow in visible confusion, and Sebastian felt just as bewildered when she stressed, "Did you not _hear_ it?"

"No—hear what?"

"That sound—that _ringing_. It was the exact same incident that happened in Connelly's police cruiser and at—"

She stopped, words dying in her throat. Sebastian shifted to face her fully, studying her carefully as he urged, "And where?"

She shook her head again. "I—I don't know. After you and Joseph went in that hospital, I—I guess I blacked out. I don't remember clearly." The last sentence was a mere mutter, and Sebastian struggled to catch the words—of course, the statement did little but add to his frustration.

"You don't remember, or you don't think I'll believe you?"

She regarded him with a frown. "What if I said the latter?"

Sebastian glanced around, shrugging. "Considering what's happened, I don't think much is going to surprise me."

"Right," she murmured. Then, nodding toward the dirt road, she added, "Well, if I'm going to be explaining myself, perhaps we should keep moving. I don't know if I can linger around here—not with Connelly."

Sebastian jerked a nod in understanding. "I couldn't agree more."

Surprisingly, Cassandra still had the heart to offer him assistance—offer him relief from his aching leg. He huffed in silent, dry laughter this time; however, he was no less grateful as he accepted her help and trudged down the dirt road, listening to the solemn story Cassandra had to share.

If only Cassandra knew how disturbed he was to hear her relate her encounter with the cloaked, burned man—how _similar_ the attack was, along with the resulting aftermath.

But what did it all mean?

* * *

><p><span><strong>To the Reviewers:<strong>

_**Leyshla Gisel: ** _I have not played the game, either; I have actually been watching YouTube videos of the game, hence my knowledge of the universe. However, I do plan upon buying the game in order to play it for myself. I will undoubtedly fail miserably, considering my lack of skills in survival horror, XD. Thank you for your review, and I hope you liked Chapter 3!

**_yorkmanic89: _**Thank you, and I hope you enjoy this new Chapter, too :)

**_EnigmaUniverse: _**Once again, thank you :) You are amazingly kind to say that.

As for the story itself, the horror can be difficult to capture. It is just those little moments when you sit back and wonder, 'Is there enough tension? Is it terrifying, or even eerie?' The pressure is doubled as well, considering the world of _The Evil Within_ and how perfectly the horror flows. Therefore, when you told me that I had attained this element in my story (especially for Chapter 2; that was a definite goal), it was a relief. Hopefully, I can maintain the horror and tension throughout the rest of this tale; but, for now, I am very glad that I have made the first step. Thank you once again for another wonderful review; as you can see, it truly helped :)

_**RainDancerXx: ** _I was surprised to find a review from you in my inbox, and I was taken aback by your words, too. Seriously, thank you. You brought a smile to my face and gave me that little nudge of confidence. That is more than I could ask for :) Also, I must say, your _The Evil Within_ fanfic is absolutely stunning!

Again, thank you for your review; I hope to not disappoint.


	4. Chapter 4: Disoriented

**Author's Note: ** Hello again, dear readers, and welcome to Chapter 4! Now, I will say, this Chapter was originally longer; however, with its word count just passing 10k words, I decided to split its contents in half. I believe it shall be easier this way - for all of us. Also, I have recently bought the game for myself to play!...and I'm about to face the Keeper. I don't know whether I should be excited or worried. Surely he's better than Laura...right? :/

On that note, a huge _thank you_ to every reviewer, follower, and favorite! Your support keeps me motivated, and I am grateful for every email I receive for this story. :)

Enjoy!

_**Disclaimer: I do not own The Evil Within whatsoever (unfortunately). However, any OCs or scenes not seen in the game are my creations.**_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter IV:<strong>

**Disoriented**

"'_Reality' is the only word in the English language that should always be used in quotes." -Unknown_

* * *

><p>Some time had passed—a decent break in conversation after Cassandra had spoken her piece of the tale—when a pressing question dawned on Sebastian. He asked, "What happened after the ambulance crashed?" He glanced at Cassandra. "You were awake sooner than I was."<p>

Cassandra shrugged, consequently raising Sebastian's right arm up and down with the movement. "Not much to tell, really. I woke up with you still knocked out beside me and a fire flickering in the windshield. Everyone else was gone," she said, brow furrowed, as if her own words baffled her. "I was still dazed when I hauled you out, so there are some holes in my memory. I doubt anything significant occurred, though."

Sebastian gave a single nod, decidedly dodging around the subject after Cassandra's last statement. Although nothing significant happened to _Cassandra_ during his unconsciousness, he could not truthfully declare the same. Of course, he had no solid proof that his experience in the irrational hospital and his exchange with the nurse residing there had been a _real_ event; that is, every second he had undergone in that place could have simply been a disturbing dream. Cassandra had supposedly undergone similar trials after her encounter with the cloaked man—an ominous, tangible nightmare. Still, despite his reasoning, he could not erase the alternate world from his mind; he could not admit that the sights and conversations and _pain_ had been a figment of his imagination.

_I'll be waiting._ The nurse had told him that. She obviously expected him to return to the hospital, whether sooner or later. The place _had_ to be real, and there _had_ to be a route back.

That is, if he was desperate enough to revisit after his first encounter.

The debating thought faded once Sebastian noticed a shift in the scenery. The trees became sparse, parting abruptly to the left and right and revealing the yawning mouth of a cave. The bright glow of Sebastian's and Cassandra's lanterns struck the marred rock and attempted to pierce the shadows inhabiting the tunnel—the latter service, however, met with little success.

Cassandra exhaled audibly. "I knew Krimson City had a decent thicket along its southern vicinity, but I certainly don't remember it being a mountainous region," she remarked, gazing up at the tower of stone above the cavern's entrance.

"That's because it's not," Sebastian countered, joining her observation. He was not eager to journey into the fissure; and, if he had allowed paranoia to persuade his mind, he might have feared that the cave would collapse as soon as he and Cassandra passed the threshold (though, considering the operation of this twisted world, Sebastian would not be surprised if the notion proved true). But, he and Cassandra had few options—especially when a distant voice funneled through the tunnel, bouncing off the rocks and echoing in his ears.

"Voices, voices, voices…"

Sebastian and Cassandra stared at each other. _Let's go._

They entered the dank cave, maneuvering around fallen slabs of rock and loose pebbles. The mumbles grew louder, encouraging Sebastian and Cassandra to press forward into the impeding darkness. Eventually, their lanterns illuminated a pale figure shuffling back and forth across the tunnel's width. Sebastian did not recognize the stranger until they drew closer and he caught a glimpse of the opposing male's scrunched features. He was the young man accompanying the doctor—Leslie was what they called him, right?

Sebastian was suddenly anxious to reach Leslie, his pace quickening despite his aching leg; however, a faint glint in the air brought him to a jarring halt, his hand gripping Cassandra's shoulder to prevent her from travelling further as well.

As if to confirm Sebastian's suspicions, Leslie relayed frantically, "Hurts, hurts…"

Sebastian's eyes followed the thin line that stretched across their path, the left end attached to a rigged device. A trip wire.

"Whoa…" Sebastian murmured, slowly lifting his gaze to stare at Leslie. "Were you warning us about this?"

"Hurts, hurts!" Leslie emphasized, pressing the heels of his palms to his temples.

Cassandra shifted. "He's right. That is a powerful explosive. The thing would blow you in half," she breathed. She glanced at Sebastian, incredulity creasing her features. "I'm surprised he didn't spring it."

"Kid's smart," he agreed. Then, addressing Leslie again, he spoke, "You're Leslie, right? I'm a police officer, and so is my partner. Maybe we should help you."

Leslie lowered his hands, wringing them furiously. He never met Sebastian's or Cassandra's gaze. "Should help you," he repeated vaguely, shifting nervously.

Sebastian mumbled a curse. "How are we going to get you to a hospital?"

Cassandra huffed. "I doubt there is a hospital nearby. He's just going to have to tag along until we can get him somewhere safe."

"Safe, safe…" Leslie parroted. Then, panic blossoming, he said with increasing volume, "Hospital. Hospital. Hospital. _Hospital_. _Hospital!_"

Leslie waddled into the darkness, his ghostly figure drifting away.

Cassandra whispered her own expletive. "Leslie, wait!" Her beckoning was fruitless, though, for no response—in words or in reappearance—answered her. She shook her head. "What was that all about?"

"No idea," Sebastian replied.

She sighed. "Well, let's go after him then. Can't let him wander alone out here."

They both slipped cautiously under the trip wire, keeping their heads bowed and, judging by Cassandra's distracted gaze directed over Sebastian's shoulder, the redheaded detective remained wary of the explosive attached to the wall. They passed unharmed, and they wasted no time whatsoever in placing distance between them and the trap.

The cave came to a quick end after they departed the trip wire, and the foreboding forest greeted them as soon as they stepped over the rocky threshold. Both Sebastian and Cassandra scanned the expansive area before them; however, surprisingly, Leslie was nowhere to be found.

"So, not only is he smart, he's also fast," Cassandra noted dryly.

Sebastian shook his head indignantly. "He couldn't have gotten far," he retorted, ascending the mild slope and following the faint path worn into the tall grass. Cassandra's crunching footsteps accompanied his own as she trailed behind him.

A poorly constructed fence rose from the ground on their left, following the makeshift path faithfully. On the right sat a broken, rotting carriage housing no signs that it had been disturbed lately; however, the motionless body strewn across the grass a few feet in front of it spoke otherwise. Sebastian may have been tempted to approach the body, but the mass of crows that picked at its flesh informed Sebastian that the individual was long deceased and probably held no clues—none that the crows had not already torn apart.

A squat, stand-alone building appearing in the near distance, a hanging, swaying lamp illuminating its covered porch. Sebastian sidled toward the wooden structure, noting the dark blood messily decorating its door; however, there was an off-setting factor about the gruesome splatter, and Sebastian could have sworn that the crimson substance formed a lighthouse, shafts of light emitting from its peak.

"Beacon Mental Hospital," Cassandra suddenly muttered, earning Sebastian's attention as he twisted his torso to glance back at her. She continued, explaining, "Don't you recognize it? I remember seeing that exact symbol in the courtyard—the statue in the center. But what significance would that hold here?"

Sebastian swiveled forward again. "It's where this madness started, isn't it?" he asked, proceeding toward the door and reaching for the handle.

"Even so, I wouldn't consider it a coincidence—or _safe_, for that matter."

Sebastian did not argue her point (silently, he agreed); but he did not halt his progress, shoving open the door and garnering a lonely squeal from the hinges. Immediately, the single room beyond distorted, the air seemingly solidifying into a familiar figure: the nurse from the abnormal hospital. She strode forward, entering the blindingly bright mirror at the other end of the room and disappearing from view.

_Crack!_

Sebastian was startled from his reverie when the door slammed shut, barring him inside the small space.

"Sebastian!" Cassandra called from the outside, the handle rattling but refusing to budge. "Sebastian?"

"I'm all right," he answered her concerned shouts. A part of his mind urged him to move toward the door and reopen it; however, another part—a purely curious part—was transfixed to the mirror as it shattered, soft music filling the air and a bright beam shining through the ugly cracks. His feet sought the mirror, and he felt himself drawing closer to the broken glass.

"I can't open the door. Sebastian?"

He clearly remembered hearing Cassandra, but his brain refused to obey. First, he had to investigate. He saw the nurse depart the room through this strange portal; surely he could mimic the action.

"_Sebastian!_"

He woke up on an uncomfortable mattress, the space he was occupying dreary and dark.

"What the…?" he mumbled, searching the area wildly. This was his room—his cell at the hospital. "Back here again? By a _mirror_? I must be losing it."

He had returned to the hospital through a mirror in an abandoned building; and, worse, he had left Cassandra stranded while he himself had no sure way of escaping from this secondary world.

Sebastian ran a hand down his face, scrubbing at the scruff along his jaw. He had wanted to revisit the hospital, if only to solidify the reality of the place; now, it seemed that his wish was granted—though, he would not necessarily label himself as _happy_.

Slipping off the worn mattress, Sebastian grudgingly scanned the familiar room, the scene unaltered from his last visit. He spared a glance at the desk beside him; the newspapers were gone, replaced with blank sheets of paper held in place by a pen. He may have considered the minor change odd, but after the recent events he had experienced, he shrugged at the detail and shifted his attention to the open door. His feet involuntarily guided him into the hall, his right leg interrupting his smooth gait. Even in this strange, seemingly imaginary place, his injuries still affected him—they still _existed_. Perhaps that meant this was not a dream; that he was awake and, in a sense, sane.

Sebastian huffed to himself. _If that's true, then that means the other place was a bad dream—and I don't particularly believe that._

The lobby became his next destination. With a brief examination, Sebastian realized that the entirety of the waiting room remained unchanged as well, every piece occupying its respective space. Truly, the only difference Sebastian could detect was the stack of newspapers occupying their designated rack. Upon closer inspection, Sebastian realized that the printed articles were past news, perhaps a week younger than the previous papers he had skimmed here: _'SERIAL KILLER ON THE LOOSE. Victims Had Surgery Performed On Them.'_ What connection did an old report about a supposed serial killer have with this place? Were these newspapers even relevant in this twisted world?

The grandfather clock chimed, urging Sebastian to turn his back to the newspaper's stand; and, as soon as his eyes landed on the billboard directly across from him, his feet were moving forward in eager, faltering strides. Once he reached the board, he snatched the flyer hanging subtly from the cork.

_MISSING: Leslie Withers_

_Psychiatric patient Leslie Withers disappeared from a locked room at Beacon Mental Hospital. _

A 'missing' poster? For the poor kid from Beacon Mental Hospital? Had he been lost for quite some time, only now reappearing in this strange place? But how, and why? He was in the ambulance with everyone else, departing the very place he had supposedly escaped from! The flyer made no sense.

Hinges groaned and, from the corner of his eye, Sebastian saw the nurse emerge from a door behind the reception desk. "Whatever is the matter?" she asked nonchalantly as she approached the counter. She gestured toward a clipboard. "Would you care to sign in?"

Sebastian walked toward the desk, crumpling Leslie's 'missing person' poster and shoving it into his pants' pocket—he would keep his questions about the newspapers and the billboard for a later date. First, he must speak to the nurse. Despite their previous, unsettling meeting, Sebastian knew she was his only guidance in this hospital—though, whether her answers would be straightforward or evasive was a different consideration.

He leaned against the counter, staring at the nurse incredulously before shifting his gaze toward the iron-bar door. He could clearly see the chair (it had changed, Sebastian noticed, from an innocent antique chair to a sadistic wheelchair) sitting in the center of its circle of light, the IV bags standing behind it. Amazingly, the area had become even more ominous since his initial visit, its dark promises slipping through the cold bars and encroaching the lobby.

Sebastian tore his gaze away, a slow exhale leaving his lips. When had he held his breath? "Depends. Are you going to make me sit in that contraption again?" he asked, eyeing the nurse suspiciously. The aforementioned woman never flinched under his hard stare; however, her eyes never met his, even while answering his question.

"That is for you to decide," she informed, her features passive. Sebastian could not determine whether she was disappointed or indifferent to his skepticism.

He took a moment to consider his options, glancing behind him briefly as if he expected to be ambushed. The lobby was unnervingly peaceful—not even the artificial leaves of the plastic plant twitched in disturbance.

Finally, he voiced his next query: "So where's the exit?"

"First, you must sign in," she insisted.

Sebastian released a frustrated sigh before sliding the clipboard toward him. He grabbed a nearby pen and jotted down his name, not caring whether the penmanship was neat or formal.

"Thank you," the nurse said, tearing the sheet from the clipboard; and, as soon as the page was removed and stashed away, the iron door swung open, the metal clanging lightly on the adjacent wall in a jarring halt. Simultaneously, a crisp _crack_ was heard, followed by a shrill ring that made Sebastian cringe. Twisting his torso, he stared in the opposite direction, down the hall and at the intricately designed mirror at the end. A sliver of light poured through a fissure in the smoky glass, bathing the hall in its pure glow.

Sebastian faced the nurse, suddenly curious. He had entered the hospital through a mirror; therefore, he figured he would be able to depart in the same fashion. However, there was a third question plaguing his thoughts.

"What does the chair do?" he asked, jerking a nod toward the aforementioned contraption.

The nurse tilted her head. "I'm afraid that I cannot answer that," she answered. A hint of a frown dragged the corners of her lips downward.

_Of course you can't_. Sebastian pressed his palm against the counter's cool top and pushed away from the reception desk. He stood in the center of the lobby, debating—actually _debating_—upon which direction he should choose. An intense desire to _know_ what the chair and its twisted contraptions did to him—what effect they had on him—tugged him toward the barred passage; however, his clear memories of the pain he had endured initially competed with his desire for knowledge. He was hesitant, and he was wary.

Besides: why would he willingly ignore his escape route simply for curiosity?

Because he was a detective; because he wanted answers and results.

Sebastian would berate himself later—berate himself for striding through the iron-bar gate, passing the short passage with its filthy washbasin, and approaching the wheelchair with its glinting needles.

He circled the contraption, noting the gears and wires and tubes. He examined the needles attached to the wrist bands, poised to inject the forearms of its victims; and he observed—with a disgusted mask plastered on his features—the headpiece with its own dozens of needles. He had sat here—he had been punctured by these same needles; yet, he bore no marks of the shots. It was as if he imagined his former experience in the chair.

Sebastian shook his head. That was a thought he would rather not consider. He did not want this reality to be further muddled by doubt and fiction.

The distinct click of heels garnered his attention. Striding into the room with a casual, cool air, the nurse brushed past him and approached the control panel adjacent to the wheelchair. She spun around once she reached her position, her features mildly contorted with curiosity and compliance. Wordlessly, she seemed to be asking: _do you wish to try again?_

"Why can't you tell me what this thing does?" Sebastian pressed, gesturing toward the wheelchair and watching the nurse cautiously, hoping to witness some indication in the woman's stature or demeanor. She may not speak openly, but her reactions hinted at her thoughts. Unfortunately, she remained utterly passive and silent, still waiting patiently for Sebastian to finalize his decision. She was unshakeable when she was pressed about secrets.

Sebastian shook his head, retreating from the room. "I'm not going back in—not until I have my questions answered," he stated boldly, a sliver of irritation entering his tone. With a final glance at the unresponsive nurse, he spun around and returned to the lobby, his eyes locked on the mirror at the end of the corridor.

He had barely passed the reception desk when a soft rustle emitted from his right. His head snapped abruptly in the aforementioned direction, alarm visible on his features when his gaze landed on the nurse standing attentively behind the counter. She never met his eyes as she said in curt farewell, "Do see us again."

The courtesy was never repaid as Sebastian hastened his stride and left the lobby, his footsteps echoing loudly down the corridor as he approached the shining mirror. He squinted as he focused on the strip of light that broke through the glass, the action painful but mesmerizing all at once. He remembered passing the second set of doors before his world was washed in white; and, after a handful of seconds, the pure color dissolved into a rough, shadowy world, interrupted only by a dull, golden radiance.

Sebastian brought a hand to his forehead, a groan leaving his lips as reality reestablished itself in his groggy mind. His brain registered the horizontal position of his body, and he slowly raised his torso from the wooden floorboards. A quick scan of his surroundings revealed that he was still inhabiting the strange, outcast building, the enchanting mirror that once hung on its far wall missing. He huffed—even if he changed his mind, the hospital was, once again, beyond his reach.

Regaining his footing, Sebastian wandered over to the door, hoping that the entryway was unlocked. He grasped the handle and pulled it down—there was a soft click, and the door whined on its hinges as Sebastian opened the portal. He inhaled the fresh air, relieved to be free of his temporary confines; however, he noticed a significant detail that was absent from the scene before him—a detail that suddenly sharpened his senses.

Cassandra was nowhere to be seen.

He swore under his breath, fully departing the building and searching the nearby area for the redheaded detective. "Manders?" he beckoned testily, waiting for a reply that failed to arrive. He glanced up and down the worn path, finding no definite sign to Cassandra's whereabouts—all was peaceful, except for the occasional caw from the crows. He exhaled, exasperated as he muttered to himself, "Where did you go?"

He chose to proceed forward down the path, deciding that the redheaded detective would at least push onward and not backtrack. Towering rock formations and fallen boulders surrounded him on the left and right, interrupted only by the path he tread and the few, gnarled trees that rose from patches of rich earth and overgrown grass. The roots—almost purposely curved to catch the feet of trespassers—broke through the ground, combining with the chunks of rock to create a hazardous journey; and Sebastian's wounded calf did not appreciate the awkward motions Sebastian had to adopt to traverse the terrain. Sebastian paused occasionally to regain his balance and allow the burning agony gripping his nerves to ease into a dull throb once more. Perhaps Cassandra's assistance had done more wonders than he had originally inferred.

Eventually, the path widened, revealing another outpost wedged between the stone wall on the left and the dilapidated wagon on the right. The porch—similar to the last building—was illuminated with a hanging lantern; however, it also revealed a man pounding on the closed door furiously. The distracted male was ragged and stained with blood, his skin impaled with bits of wood.

_Another one like Connelly?_ Sebastian wondered, brow furrowed in thought. If this man was also infected, then Sebastian needed to slip by him; or, if he must, dispose the other male. Unfortunately, the latter seemed to be Sebastian's only option, for the building and the damaged wagon barricaded the path; and Sebastian was unable to scale the sheer stone—not with his injury.

Sebastian flicked off his lantern and reached for his handgun—but, when his hand brushed the handle of a different weapon, he reconsidered his tactic. Fingers curling around a smooth hilt, Sebastian drew his hunting knife and held it level with his line of sight. He had forgotten about the weapon, too stunned by the sudden change of events to even recall its presence at his hip.

Lifting his gaze, Sebastian studied the man still beating the wooden door to no avail. Perhaps Sebastian could do this furtively; and, if the attempt failed him, then he could still summon his gun to finish the job.

He crept forward, deliberately ignoring his aching calf and keeping his focus locked on the infected man. As Sebastian entered the perimeter of the porch's light, he could detect the more gruesome details that composed his target. Irregular bumps, cavernous cysts, a network of veins, and streaks of blood—this man was no different from Connelly. What _was_ this disease? Or was it even classified as an ailment? Sebastian was no scientist or doctor; therefore, he had no way of knowing.

The opportunity blossomed abruptly; and, in a swift movement, Sebastian found himself sinking his sharp blade into the man's skull, puncturing the temple with a sickening crunch. The opposing male became limp, a heavy weight in Sebastian's arms. Sebastian lowered the body to the ground, glancing away as he yanked his hunting knife free of its kill. It was done—the hunting knife had performed well.

Sebastian stepped over the deceased man, opening the door the aforementioned male had been attempting to tear down. The inside of the structure consisted of little more than a short, bending corridor that led to an open window. Sebastian had no option but to follow the designated path, climbing over the windowsill and continuing down the dirt trail he had formerly been trekking; however, he barely took two steps before he caught a flash of movement in the darkness. He focused on the position he had seen the blur, fighting to peer through the shadows of the night. He quickly found the figure, the humanoid shape disappearing behind the bulky rocks.

Sebastian quickened his gait, his objective now attached to the fleeing human being. Of course, he could be chasing another infected person; but, despite the chance, Sebastian knew this was his only definite lead. He has been pointlessly roaming this mountainous copse ever since his return from the hospital; he might derive some benefit if he followed the guidance of another.

He rounded the bend, briefly blinded by the orange flames that greeted him. Lifting a hand to shield his eyes, he gazed at the roaring bonfire, distantly wondering who had been maintaining the fire. Had it been the person he had seen seconds earlier? If so, where had he gone?

A low, hollow groan earned his immediate attention, and his head snapped in the direction of the noise. An arching iron gate stood a few yards away, its right door swinging loosely. Sebastian approached the gate, pressing his forearm against the cold metal and pushing the aforementioned door open. It groaned again as it swung open, and Sebastian gave it a mild glare as he passed.

The dirt he had been treading morphed into cobblestone, flecked with dried leaves, straws of hay, and broken bottles. A second, grand fire burned brightly up ahead, illuminating the collapsed ruins of a once large home. A section of the remaining walls was splattered heavily with blood; and, hobbling away from the gory scene, was an aged man, barefooted, grey-haired, and wearing baggy clothing. His skin was pallid, and his entire body seemed to shake uncontrollably.

Hesitating for a brief moment, Sebastian finally stepped forward, shifting his weight to his left foot and keeping his stance defensive. He did not completely trust this newcomer, especially with the bloody display behind him. "Hey, are you from around here?" Sebastian began, garnering the elder's attention only for a second before he stared at his feet again. "Look, I don't know where—"

"Can't go on…" the elder breathed. He stopped, lifted his head, and basked in a ray of white light. Sebastian caught a glimpse of a lighthouse in the distance before he was blinded by its far-stretching beams. He shrunk away from the shaft of radiance, cringing when his ears were suddenly filled with a high-pitched ring.

'_Did you not _hear _it? That sound—that _ringing_.'_ Cassandra had described a ringing sound—a sound that she had heard twice, nearly thrice if the ambulance could be considered a third experience. Was this the same noise that now filled his head with its terrible clamor?

Sebastian did not have much time to consider the question before a strangled cry from the elder snagged his attention. He stared in silent horror as a long, thin string of crimson spiraled around the opposing man's legs, wrapping his body rapidly in its liquid webs. It collected around his head, spinning and warping before exploding in a shower of red droplets.

"My God…" Sebastian said to himself, staring at the elder in utter shock. His body was inflicted with barbed wire, the tiny barbs digging into his skin and stretching it grotesquely across his bones and muscles.

Then, a yard away from him, another man arose, his body more mutilated, with various stitches and nails marring his uncovered torso while his skull was separated into three fragments, revealing clumps of barbed wire between the pieces.

Sebastian spat curses, ripping his handgun from its holster.

The second man—the man seemingly stuffed with barbed wire, considering the state of his head—snarled and charged down the small flight of stairs, his glowing eyes set on Sebastian. Sebastian leveled his handgun and fired, the first bullet striking the barbed man squarely on the nose, forcing him to fall backward in a pained yowl. Sebastian raised his weapon higher, sending his second bullet toward the elder who had yet to reach his compatriot's position. The bullet sank into his knee, damaging the joint beyond repair. The elder tumbled to the side without the support of his leg, his upper body landing in the flames of the bonfire. He thrashed and wailed, but Sebastian did not linger on his writhing form for long, unable to witness the suffering. Thankfully, the elder's cries died away quickly.

A glare from the corner of his eyes made him swivel away from the carnage, his eyes focusing on the lighthouse sitting amongst a nest of rocky crags in the distance. He would not deny the slight tug he felt toward the shining beacon; however, he resisted and stared at the earth instead.

_I feel like I'm being pulled just looking at it._ He spared a quick glance toward the two motionless males. _Were they drawn to it as well? Is that what changed them? The lighthouse? The ringing?_

He trudged forward, shoving his handgun into its holster. If he was feeling a slight pull, then the others were undoubtedly effected as well. Connelly had already been altered, and Cassandra had been complaining about the piercing ring, experiencing the sound on more than one occasion.

Therefore, the faster he found them, the better the chances—that is, if there was anything that could be done to reverse the curse. Connelly never regained his senses; would the others be stronger under such influences?

Despite his lame leg, Sebastian quickened his pace down the cobblestone path.

* * *

><p>Sebastian could easily describe his experience before reaching the abandoned town with one word: <em>Hell<em>. He had fought a handful of the infected beings, spending his bullets until the last one left the barrel of his handgun and entered the skull of its victim for a killing blow; however, he had been pursued by a dozen more, chased until he reached a locked gate. The following, desperate attempt at escape had been a blur, beginning with a mad dash toward the mindless horde and ending in the murky waters of a wide river.

As he had said: Hell.

He stumbled forward, his leg searing with pain from his unrelenting escape. He did not pay much heed to the details that composed the town, merely watching for enemies and searching for a suitable building to take shelter in. He settled for the first, two-story dwelling on his left, trudging toward the partially open double doors. A sliver of light seeping through the seams cast a thin ray across the ground, as if beckoning Sebastian to enter—and Sebastian did not hesitate.

He tugged open one of the doors and entered, staggering toward the dresser that sat two yards from the entrance. He paused for a moment, sucking in a slow breath before fumbling through the contents of the drawers—which, unfortunately, consisted of little other than sparse clothing. Sebastian decided to collect the single, white shirt from the final drawer, grasping it firmly in his hand as he approached the opposite wall. He leaned his back against the rough concrete, carefully sliding down the wall into a sitting position.

Of course, he had no option to clean the laceration—not even a bottle of alcohol was available; therefore, he could only shred the shirt he had acquired and wrap it tightly around his calf. The treatment was hardly grand or overly efficient; but, as long as it halted the oozing trail of blood and provided some pressure to the area, then Sebastian would be satisfied with his makeshift bandages.

The clean shirt became bloodied tatters as Sebastian cut strips from the white fabric and bound them around his wound. Pain shot up his leg, spreading the anguish throughout his body as he proceeded with his task; however, he did not become tenderer, merely using the distress as a motivation to ensure the durability of the binding. Utilizing the final piece of cloth, Sebastian tied the knot and reclined against the wall, his clenched jaw loosening and his hand scrubbing at the stubble on his chin.

For how long Sebastian sat there, sucking in deep breaths and letting the pain seep away from his injured leg, he could not guess; however, whenever he heard the clatter from upstairs, followed by a muffled voice, he urged himself to reinstate himself into action. He rose from the floor and crept up the staircase, one hand brushing against the wall and the other gripping the handle of his gun. The upper level of the home consisted of a barren corridor with open doorways leading to various rooms—mostly bedrooms, if the chambers' setup was proof enough to the theory.

Sebastian was cautious, examining each new space he encountered; but, it was not until he reached the end of the hallway that he found any trace of suspicion. A closed door—positioned on the far left—garnered Sebastian's attention, and he sidled toward the barricaded portal with light footsteps. Once within reach, Sebastian grasped the doorknob and twisted his wrist, opening the door and pushing the wooden slab inward. Sebastian ignored the creak that emitted from the door when his eyes landed upon the white coat of another male.

Sebastian raised his gun, shifting his weight to his stronger leg. "Who's there?" he demanded, his index finger brushing the trigger in dreaded anticipation.

"No, don't shoot!" the man exclaimed, lifting his arms with his palms facing outward: _surrender_. Then, with meticulously slow movements, the man placed a hand on his chest and assured Sebastian, saying, "I'm not one of _them_. I'm a doctor—Marcelo Jimenez."

Sebastian's arms fell as his muscles released their tension; he recognized that voice and accent, along with the unmistakable laboratory coat. "You were in the ambulance before it crashed, right?" he queried, an eyebrow arched faintly.

"Yes," Marcelo acknowledged, nodding, "we're lucky to be alive."

_You don't need to tell me that._ Surviving an ambush in a nightmarish Beacon Mental Hospital and fleeing a collapsing city were remarkable feats alone; now, Sebastian was able to add living after falling off a precipice and combating a hoard of deranged, inflicted men and women. Sebastian had much more than _luck_ when these ordeals took place.

The thought served as a reminder. Sebastian eyed the doctor warily. "Have you seen anyone else pass by here? Met them, even?" Sebastian pressed. He stepped forward, three long strides covering the majority of the distance between himself and Marcelo.

Marcelo nodded fervently. "Yes! My patient, Leslie," he answered eagerly. "I saw him running up ahead, but…"

"_But?_"

Marcelo made a summoning gesture. "Come this way—quietly, mind you."

Marcelo pushed aside the fluttering curtain a foot away from him, revealing a rickety balcony. Sebastian hesitated for a moment before following after the doctor. He had yet to holster his weapon, the gun gleaming wickedly in the torchlight as it remained firmly clasped in his palm.

Once Sebastian had adopted a stance next to Marcelo, the doctor whispered hoarsely, "Have a look for yourself." He shoved a pair of binoculars into Sebastian's hands. He continued: "Those…_things_…chased me all the way into the village."

Sebastian lifted the binoculars and stared down at the landscape before them. The seemingly peaceful town became more chaotic further down the main road, more infected beings roaming the settlement with awkward gaits. Sebastian did not fail to notice the deadly weapons a handful of the infected hefted in their gory hands, nor the gruesome, mutilated design their bodies had undertaken. The sight provoked a thought—or, rather, multiple thoughts: were these people former residents of this town? Were they altered because of the lighthouse and its accompanying ring? How and why had he and Marcelo resisted the impact of the deafening noise? Would they eventually meet the same, unfortunate demise? Or were they immune?

No—no, the theory did not complete the puzzle adequately. Connelly had deteriorated rapidly, and Cassandra had been struggling with the strange noise ever since Connelly's cruiser's radio first introduce the sound; even Sebastian had felt a strong pull toward the lighthouse when he had laid eyes upon it. Therefore, immunity had no part in recent events; rather, it was like a gradual acceleration—a slow ascension. Sebastian had no desire to see the results—in him, or anyone else who had been on that ambulance.

Since the doctor had not continued his speech, Sebastian decided to add to his original statement. "Those things chased me down, too. They're all over the place, as if everyone here fell victim to…well, to whatever _this_ epidemic is," Sebastian said, lowering the binoculars and passing them back to the doctor.

Marcelo accepted the aforementioned equipment. Then, pointing to some unknown object in the distance, he explained, "Leslie went through that gate." Sebastian followed the doctor's index finger and stared at the intimidating gate that separated the town from whatever landmark that lay beyond, the thick lumber that composed the barricade sturdy.

Then, in a hesitant tone, Marcelo decided to add, "And, perhaps I should mention another who has fled to the other side before the gate closed."

These words garnered Sebastian's immediate interest, and he faced the doctor fully, his features twisted in a displeased outlook. "Who?" he demanded.

"A woman—red hair and sporting a badge, if my eyes did not deceive me."

_Cassandra. _Sebastian's mouth formed a harsh line, irritation directed toward the doctor and concern concentrated on the redheaded detective and the Beacon Hospital patient. Sebastian needed to reach the other side of the gate.

He refocused on Marcelo. "Couldn't have told me this earlier?" he questioned, voice oddly level—and Marcelo did not miss the precarious calmness, providing quick explanation to his motives.

"I apologize," he said, "but she slipped my mind. I have my own to look after, as you already know."

Sebastian could not rid himself of Marcelo's evasive manner and sharp retorts; as if the doctor regarded Sebastian as a fool. Granted, Marcelo did seem to withhold knowledge beyond Sebastian, the mere mention of the name 'Ruvik' supporting Sebastian's assumption; however, the fact did not necessarily mean that Sebastian wished to be treated as an imbecile, nor kept in the dark by compiling secrets.

Lifting his handgun and frowning at the lack of bullets (he would have to scour the town for ammunition, it would seem), Sebastian told Marcelo, "Well, if we want to reach either of them, then we're going to have to cooperate." He glanced at the pathway leading to the closed gate. "There are too many to shoot our way through."

Marcelo curled his hands around the railing and placed his weight upon it—a position Sebastian figured unwise, considering the poor state of the balcony. "One us could try to lure them away while the other gets the gate open," he suggested. He turned his head toward Sebastian. "You're the one with the gun; therefore, you should be able to manage the latter."

Sebastian was hardly thrilled about the shaky plan, but he shrugged anyway and agreed, remarking, "If you say so." Then, before the doctor could depart, Sebastian added, "Hey, doc. Your patient, Leslie—was he missing? Before this whole ordeal?"

Marcelo opened his mouth, closed it; then tried again, saying unsurely, "No, he's been at the hospital, under my exclusive care—with the exception of some…outside professionals." He paused. "Why do you ask?"

"No reason." Sebastian waved off the query. "Just a stupid question."

Marcelo nodded and disappeared into the house, slipping back into Sebastian's sight below the balcony. The doctor jogged forward, flaming torch in hand, and shouted at the infected: "Over here! _Here!_" Growls erupted from the streets, and multiple figures stumbled toward the torch and the unfortunate man holding the light source. "That's right, this way!"

The infected charged, the torch was abandoned, and the doctor's stark white coat easily marked Marcelo's progress as he dashed into the darkness, chased by haunting figures.

Sebastian shook his head in disbelief. "The old guy's gonna get himself killed," he mumbled. Still, he should not waste the doctor's efforts of distraction; therefore, he retraced his steps, listening to the distant growls of the inhuman beings as he proceeded toward the closed gate.

And, all the while, he inwardly questioned Marcelo Jimenez suspicious persona. Sebastian had been a detective for quite some time—he knew a guilty man when he saw one. Marcelo would have some explaining to do after they escaped this ghost town.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Leyshla Gisel: <strong>_Well, now that I own the game, I can say that watching the videos was more leisurely than facing the horrors myself (still fun, though; when I'm not panicking or running out of ammunition). As for the upgrade chair, it will come back (as seen above) and it will play a bigger role in the future (though I may not reveal all of the details quite yet). Don't worry, all will be revealed in time ;) I hope you enjoyed Chapter 4!

**_EnigmaUniverse: _**I'm glad the hospital scene turned out well! Not all has been revealed about the place, but the pieces will begin to come together soon. And I agree: I do not believe anyone would be willing to sit in a chair and be jabbed with needles. Getting normal shots at the doctor's office is quite enough. :/

So Cassandra has been fitting into the story well? Good! It's never easy trying to incorporate a new character into an established storyline, because the introduced character will always make an impact that could potentially alter the entire plot (or at least a decent portion, depending on said character's role). Also, it's an added bonus that Sebastian has remained in character so far (and hopefully in the above Chapter, too). He can be tricky at times.

Also, despite my lateness of the message, I hope your holidays and New Year went well, too :) And the flu has been spreading here, too; actually, the rest of my family have just finished recovering. I hope you don't catch it!


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